


Confess (My Sanctuary)

by Noon30ish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Victuuri - Freeform, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Geographical Inaccuracies, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Painter Phichit, Phichit's hamsters became a horse and a mule, Prince Christophe, Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-05-26 06:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14994380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noon30ish/pseuds/Noon30ish
Summary: They say the one person on earth more powerful than a ruler is the ruler's lover. People of Lunerz would say otherwise, given the promiscuous reputation of their charmingly wayward crown prince, but no one knew a foreign traveling painter would prove them wrong.





	1. a city of stones among the waters

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is the start of a new adventure for me! I've had this fic planned out for awhile and I honestly don't want to hide it anymore, lest I lose motivation for it. This fic is really important to me; I've been curating it, crafting it, nurturing it for months and have been dying to share it with you all.
> 
> I hope you like it. ❤

The early summer sun cradled the valley, spilling forth from the jagged mountain peak to the lake down below. A town, bustling with commerce and boat horns, crowded a river that flowed from the lake northward, around the right-side base of the mountain. Intense greens and blues shimmered and swayed with the breeze as the horse and mule came to a stop at the cusp.

Phichit shrugged his cloak close atop the horse. Being his main purchase from the previous town, it was a soft, sturdy leather that should last him for the rest of his journey and long after— however long that may be.

He wasn’t sure where his journey was taking him, since maps were only useful when there was a destination in mind. The day he had set foot outside his home country was the day he resolved to make the most of his adventure, and thus location never mattered. As long as his paints were replenished and his pieces were loved, he would keep going.

“C’mon, Poppi, Malee,” Phichit said beneath his breath, “almost there.” He clicked his tongue and pulled the reins back toward the road. He had already committed the scene to memory.

Nearer the town’s entrance arch, music bellowed off walls and stained glass in a busy harmony. Street musicians lined paths by the river and fishermen chuckled by the lakeshore. No guards were to be found by the marble columns as Phichit guided his mounts through them, eyes glued to the oxidized copper statues that sat atop the arch. The central figure was reaching out above, but whether in yearning or in farewell, he couldn’t tell.

Perhaps the paint strokes would clue him in later.

First matter of business would be to find vacant stables. He had some food for them and himself to tide over a few more days if he was frugal, but that didn’t help much if they had nowhere to stay. Having painstakingly gestured and fumbled through the bits of the foreign language he had managed to understand, he figured he might still have enough Geld to house them. If he had to sleep in the stables with them for a couple nights, so be it. It wouldn’t be the worst place he had slept on his travels.

Phichit tapped at Poppi’s sides and snickered, ushering the pair of animals into a canter across the first bridge. This one was made of cobblestones smoothed over from exposure, but it seemed that there were other bridges further down the river and into the city. The immediate one to his left circumvented a strange stone tower that stuck out of the river, attached to nothing but the river floor beneath. There were long, slim barred windows just under the eaves, useless. The roof was octagonal and rusted red, both isolated from and matching the city around it.

In the distance, he thought he could see a white castle among the hills. Curious.

 _Snap._ Phichit committed that to memory, too.

And while he wanted to do nothing more than break out his materials, there was a more pressing matter. A matter that became quite apparent after the umpteenth confusing attempt at haggling unsuccessfully.

All of the stables were too expensive. In fact, something he had learned about this country was that anything that cost Geld, cost lots of it. More than he had— and that was a problem.

So, like every other time he had miscalculated his circumstances, he did what he did best.

Paint.

Or, he would do so once he found a place to set up. His stomach groaned.

The feeling was only exacerbated as he ambled closer to a bakery whose french doors were wide open with curtains that carried the scent of breaded goods. Malee’s long mule ears perked up as she tried to wander near, held back only by the lead in Phichit’s hand that was slowly loosening the longer he thought about food.

An airy laugh became louder when a man walked out of the bakery holding a small paper bag. He had on what Phichit would describe as commoner clothes— if commoner clothes were brand new and embroidered with golden lace. The shirt was long and flowed loose with the wind, only restricted by a rather plain belt. His hair was a sunlit field, shaved dark underneath, and his eyes were reflections of the verdant valleys. His lips curled around his words as he spoke to someone inside the building, the sound romantic enough to coil in Phichit’s stomach more than any hunger.

 _Snap._ Phichit couldn’t contain his stare. He wanted the image burned into his mind for fear that even his talents couldn’t capture this scene before him.

If he could paint this perfectly, he resolved never to sell it.

The man bid the baker goodbye with a nod and turned away, sultry gaze catching Phichit’s. Something flashed in his eyes before a smirk settled across his face. His fingers tapped the paper bag, starting to walk past them, when he whispered something that made Phichit’s toes curl inside his riding boots.

Phichit recovered to find the paper bag leaning in front of him on the saddle.

“Ah… thanks?” Phichit muttered, eyes following the shock of blond hair back down the street. When the man disappeared, he looked down at the bag in his lap and opened it cautiously. Inside were several fanciful buns, steam curling out into the air and bringing with it the scent of melted butter.

Phichit was used to random acts of charity every now and again, but this instance struck him odd. These were fresh and clearly not purchased for him, and yet the handsome man gave them away without a second thought. Shrugging it off with a savory bite and a pleased hum, he turned back toward the river.

Phichit brought them to the riverside road, found a good area wider than the rest, and dismounted. Tying the reins around the stone fence that lined the edge of the street over the river, he pet them apologetically. He dug feed out of one satchel and brushes out of another, unclasping his collapsible easel from the top after that. Older paintings he hadn’t yet sold of the previous city— Bren— were laid out in front of him with numbers scrawled over scraps of notebook paper. He didn’t know the sign for the local currency, so he hoped for the best.

Once set up, canvas visible to the entire street, he looked to the strange tower from earlier and began marking the perspective.

It went by quickly enough, the colors easy on the eyes and the sceneries detailed to the point of realism. A couple people would stop to look, at which point Phichit would stop and attempt to sell one of the paintings. Language barrier or not, people knew when they were being sold something. Thankfully, Phichit knew how to play the face of an angel and people around here seemed more than willing to part with a few coins. He would call out to them, _tell your friends_ , but he doubted the message was all that clear. Regardless, he painted a number of canvases consisting of things he’d seen and marvelled, selling a fair amount of them nearing late afternoon.

After a quick count of the coins he’d made over the course of the afternoon, he decided to start on the painting he was most looking forward to. Brand new canvas, cured and pristine and filled with possibilities, lay in front of him, and there was an audience around him, curiously entertained.

The background came easily to him, the light off the painted stonework of the bakery a playful flick of his brush dipped in yellow and orange. The french doors were made with straight, grained strokes of blue lighter than the sky, cloudy as it were. The river in the back had been laid down quickly at first, but he added more as the rest of the background came into focus.

The canvas was covered entirely by the time he took a break to wipe his brow. He noticed a tiny box by his feet that had been filled with coins and glanced up to see a little girl waving to him with a toothy smile. He waved back and put his palms together in a short, polite bow. The girl, not knowing intricacies of cultural customs, attempted it with gratuitous fashion. Her hair fell around her face in her bow and her giggle made what she said difficult to parse, but Phichit laughed anyway. A woman who appeared to be her mother called her back, though, and the girl left with a pout.

Phichit stretched, arms high in the air and his head lolling around until he heard a crack. He surveyed the painting with fresh eyes, mulling over minute details and tiny traces of color that were painted in certain spots, debating on adjusting them. Ultimately, he decided it would be easier to paint the man now that the background had mostly dried.

But it wasn’t long into marking the anatomy with a thin pencil that the doubt began to shake in his fingers. Phichit leaned back, brows furrowed. Starting in the center, he tried to put at least one stroke on the canvas, but it fell short. No mark could be made, no matter how long he stared nor how much he imposed the image from his mind. Something about it didn’t fit, didn’t work, and that was different.

Perhaps he was tired. The sky was beginning to fade, the sun nearing the peaks, so hours had easily passed. It wouldn’t be wrong to say he’d burned out for the day. He would prefer that be the reason rather than some inability on his part. But the crowd around him was fairly large, their stares now stifling instead of encouraging.

Phichit waved to them in consolation, wondering if any others would choose a painting to buy. There were few left in front of him, which was pleasant knowledge, but he had a feeling he was done for the day.

The crowd dispersed unevenly on one side, which caught Phichit’s attention— only for it to be completely captivated by the very man he had been trying to paint. There were bouts of shame and frustration, being faced by him knowing Phichit had failed to paint him, but they were fleeting. As was his heart rate, for some reason.

The crowd around him nodded or bowed in reverence, soon finding that there were other places on the streets to be, far away from there. Despite that, there was no uneasiness as the man continued to approach, posture relaxed and grin easy.

“Beautiful painting,” he pointed to the current canvas as he came close enough— possibly a little too close, although that seemed natural for him. His accent was thick and sounded just as potent as the first time Phichit had heard it.

It took him a second to realize it was in a shared tongue.

“Th-thank you,” he replied hastily, not wanting to seem rude.

The man chuckled. “Name’s Chris. Not many around here will speak Common, you know.”

Phichit shrugged, standing to pick up his paints and clear the easel. _Chris_ , hmm. He tried to match the name to the face, to the painting, but it came up short. “How’d you know I did?”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been watching for a little while, now. You’re quite talented. You’re also, if you forgive my blunt intuition, quite foreign. Enough to catch anyone’s eye.”

Phichit wrapped his stuff in cloth and brought it over to his mule. He tied the easel on top of Malee’s pack saddle after putting away everything else with practiced ease. The new painting, the one that might deservedly haunt him for awhile yet, was resting face up atop the easel, loose.

He was used to being labeled a foreigner— as he _was_ one, indeed— but never quite in the way Chris’s voice seemed to connotate. If Phichit were honest, it was a tad strong, like samples outside a perfume shop. Chris didn’t seem to be a threat, however, so Phichit faced him again.

“Not much I can do about that, now, can I?” Phichit placed a hand on his hip.

Chris abandoned a gesture in Phichit’s direction when Poppi tilted her head to sniff him. He pet her generously, an easy motion. “A change of clothes may help. I have some at the chateau, unless you already have a place you’re staying at. If you did, though, I’d imagine you wouldn’t be out here painting for spare change.”

Phichit counted the coins over, addition made difficult with Chris’s offer fogging his brain. Not entirely certain about what a chateau was, but betting on context it was probably a guest house. Perhaps he owned or ran it and was willing to pity Phichit’s predicament. Besides, he had travelled for over a year by this point; he thought he was fairly careful with who he trusted— although he didn’t discriminate nearly as much as others. Often times, people meant well. Or, at least, Phichit had been extremely lucky.

But Chris didn’t seem evil by any stretch of the imagination. He looked to Poppi and Malee, judging with pursed lips.

“Would the change of clothes come with my own room or would I have to share?” Phichit asked, knowing fully well the intentions of some.

Chris caught it, though, and laughed. “A stable for your horses and a _private_ room to sooth your tired body. We can discuss the other offer after you’ve cleaned up,” he suggested with a wink.

The stress from Phichit’s shoulders eased off, and he let that be his decision. “Well, my name’s Phichit. Lead the way.”

Chris attempted the name poorly. Instead of embarrassing himself a second time, he shook his head. “Petit it is.”

* * *

It didn’t take long before Phichit was leaning against Poppi more than relying on his own two feet, so Chris insisted on Phichit riding the rest of the way. Not much for argument when his limbs felt like noodles, Phichit clambered up onto Poppi and glanced at Malee for a moment of consideration. Making Chris walk felt unbecoming. Moving his stuff wouldn’t necessarily be easy, but he could always scoot forward and let Chris up on the saddle.

Well, he _could_. This Chris was still a stranger, though, and Phichit wasn’t sure how he felt about a stranger wrapping his arms around him. Still, it seemed rude to not offer.

“Just take in the scenery, seeing as that’s your thing,” Chris assured him, watching Phichit carefully.

Phichit bit his lip and nodded, looking away again to take in the lakefront up close. The road they were travelling on slowly morphed from smooth cobblestone to coarse dirt, the horses’ steps easing into a gaited lullaby. The late afternoon sunlight glittered over the water like a lady spinning in an evening gown, tendrils of her dress refracting in ripples across the houses that grew sparse. Phichit watched veins of watery light beam, clinging to the boarded docks and underneath the sides of boats, several reaching close as the pair meandered further out of the city.

The dying light played off Chris’s hair— skin and clothes, too. Highlights caressed the side of his face and haloed around his head. He walked like the sun and the water and the trees and grass were all in _his_ graces, like the clothes on his back were the only thing holding him from disappearing completely into nature. And his eyes—

“Do I count as scenery, Petit?”

Phichit blinked, only to find that Chris was staring back at him while they continued onward. His cheeks heated at being caught staring. “Huh?”

“I said to take in the scenery— although it’s flattering that you would take me in, too,” Chris said with a straight face and a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

“My eyes are weary,” Phichit murmured in defense, “it would do them well to rest on something easy.”

Chris barked out a laugh. “If you didn’t look so tired and I weren’t a gracious host, I’d have taken that as an insult.”

“I believe I meant it as a compli—”

Phichit’s voice died in his throat as they passed the fifth row of a vineyard, lines leading his eyes straight toward the large house at the top of the hill. His jaw dropped.

“Welcome to Chateau Meggenhorn,” Chris bowed courteously as they stopped short of two unique stables, shaped like they were built upside down, the roof much wider than the walls.

But Phichit was wholly enraptured the the architecture on the hill. Even from this distance, the rich black roof stood out against the white and faded beige granite that made up the exterior. There was a small bell tower in the leftmost center, intersecting at the center of three of the four sides that were built up in faux battlements. Spires and weather vanes littered the tops of towers and stone fences and balconies lined several windows on higher floors. Tall hedges and bright perennials— mere prickles of color against the light background— lined the veranda that appeared to sprawl around the perimeter, extending wider on one side with small gazebos on the two outermost corners.

And on the other side a smaller stone structure stood, laced with more rounded spokes over the spires. From this distance, Phichit couldn’t quite make out what it was.

That was all from one brief but overwhelming glance— and Phichit could tell he wasn’t at some ordinary _guest house_. How could he have been so naive?

“Well,” Chris cut in again, “I’m sure you’re enjoying the view up there but this is where— ah, forgive me, what are your horses’ names?”

Phichit knocked his right foot out of the stirrup and flipped his reins over, allowing a nearby stable boy to take them. He hadn’t noticed the other person there, but they didn’t seem inclined to speak, so Phichit bowed his head, only slightly off-guard.

“Poppi and Malee,” Phichit answered, “but Malee’s a mule.”

Chris nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll have someone come by to drop off your things. For now, you might want to get off the horse.”

“Right.” Phichit hurried to swing his leg behind and hop off, but in his haste got his other foot snagged in the stirrup. His balance teetered with his hands already slipping off the saddle and he was fully prepared to hit the ground with no dignity left—

But found his fall interrupted by arms underneath his and around his torso, a warm, firm chest against his back. His dignity wasn’t saved in the least.

“Perhaps you should sleep before you bathe,” Chris suggested, his voice resonating in his chest, which was still pressed against Phichit’s back, “I wouldn’t want a guest drowning in my bathtub.”

Phichit unhooked his foot and stood up, almost regrettably losing the welcoming warmth behind him. He must have been more tired than he initially thought.

“I should be alright if you keep leading me,” Phichit said as he rubbed an eye with the heel of his palm.

Chris looked like he was about to say something, but held his tongue. Instead, he proffered his arm. “Lead I shall.”

Phichit took hold of his arm tentatively, but Chris kept his pace chivalrous and patient. The vineyard rows continued up the hill until they reached the fence that marked the immediate property. They came to a gate with a stone archway that looked more like a mini castle tower, complete with crenelated battlements across the top.

Opened without so much as a lock, to Phichit’s surprise, they walked through and came to yet one more set of steep stairs. Phichit sneered, putting a hand on the vine- and moss-covered wall. He didn’t know exhaustion could run so deep.

Now that they were closer, Phichit could see that the separate stone building was a chapel, different in build and atmosphere. This structure was entirely old, mossy stone, peaked with multifaceted spires and intricate wire fences that connected between them on the roofs. A black weathervane spun idly in the wind, creaking in the silence between their steps.

Before turning left toward the house, now on the veranda, Phichit saw an iron crucifix hanging above the door. The area was dark, but Phichit decided he would have plenty of time to check it out later.

Facing the chateau now, Phichit also found that there was a red brick and wood annex. It looked clean, pristine, local, and yet very out of sorts with the rest of the place. Phichit considered asking about it, but Chris was already leading him away to an entrance.

Past the large oak doors was an entryway where a small desk, vase, and large ornate mirror decorated the wall, and upon the floor lay a plush red carpet with golden frays and a paisley design.

Phichit’s polite habit kicked in and he unwound himself from Chris’s arm to take off his boots. Chris regarded him with a look.

“Custom of your country?”

Phichit nodded. “All homes are sacred.”

Chris hummed, considering the notion. “I can show you to the rooms, then. They’re upstairs.”

True to his word, Chris brought Phichit through the grand hallway, past closed off french doors that hid ballrooms and studies and kitchens. Each room had a colorful charm with plush furniture or high ceilings and Phichit realized he was falling behind. He jogged up behind Chris by the time he turned a corner that opened to a vast reception area. A wide staircase opened up to the second floor, a balcony bordering it.

Phichit stood at the base to take it all in, Chris walking ahead of him once again. _Snap_.

Phichit pretended not to notice that Chris’s backside had been most definitely in his mind’s frame.

Once they made it to the second floor hallway, their steps echoed against the wood all the way down to the other end where it opened up to a room that seemed more like a waiting area. There were a set of two doors in the center, and several doors on the left and right.

“You can choose any room off of this landing,” Chris gestured widely, “with the exception being that room, of course.”

“Your bedroom,” Phichit said.

“Sex dungeon, actually,” Chris corrected. Although, at Phichit’s horrified stare, he amended with a whisper: “It’s a joke.”

Phichit swallowed. “The room to the right, then.”

Chris went over and opened the door for him, waving inside. “Excellent choice, Petit. You’ll find that you can see the lake and Pitalus from here.”

“Pitalus?” Phichit asked as he entered the room. It was spread out and relatively barren— but not without little touches of intricacy. A desk, boudoir, bureau, and a closet all found their home along the walls, not built in but matching meticulously. The bed was much the same.

“The large, foreboding mountain behind the city,” Chris explained.

Phichit walked toward a sort of small bed or couch that was attached to the window, a relatively private nook, and leaned forward. Indeed, the mountain looked just as gigantic as it had when he rode around it, despite the fact that it was separated from them by a lake of equal scale.

“Ah,” Phichit pondered, “I thought it was rather majestic.”

Chris scoffed. “You’ve never climbed it.”

While technically correct, Phichit didn’t have the energy to argue that he had at least skirted the base of the mountain on his travel here. “And _you_ have?”

“I’ve heard many a tale,” Chris said, still standing in the doorway, maintaining what seemed now like an awkward distance.

Phichit returned by the bed, hand whispering over the satin sheets. “Well, I paint what I see, not what I hear.”

“That is how artists work, I’ve been told,” Chris conceded. “The baths are back down the hall. I’ll have Sergei draw one up for you, if you wish.”

The prospect of a tub of hot water never felt so appealing. “Please and thank you,” Phichit sighed.

Chris nodded curtly. “And dinner is served at six. I’ll have them call for you. I’m sure you’re hungry— the buns must not have been filling, regretfully.”

“While that may be the case, they were delicious,” Phichit smirked.

Chris’s tongue darted out to lick his lip, a motion so quick Phichit almost didn’t see it. “In that case, I’m glad you liked my buns,” he said quickly, ducking out of the room.

“Ah— I’ll be able to discuss with you payment for lodging at dinner!” Phichit called.

Chris opened the door and ducked back in. “Consider your lodgings free of charge,” he spoke with a playful lilt.

In all of the places Phichit has travelled thus far, this was by far the most unfair— and he wasn’t complaining.

Phichit found the bath when he was ready easily enough. At the other end of a hall the sound of running water led him to the appropriate door. The room was a pale yellow, and in the corner by the floor-to-ceiling windows was an oversized tub with golden claw feet, big enough for several people. To the side was a small stool, with a change of clothes folded on top. Phichit was curious to see what they looked like, if they would fit, but the tub was filled with hot water that he didn’t want to waste.

After cleaning up and donning the clothing— slightly too baggy but overall simple and clean— Phichit helped himself to a much needed, much appreciated nap. His muscles and lungs cried out in joy as he spread out across the sheets, and it wasn’t long before he passed out.

A knock on the door roused Phichit from his slumber. He yawned and stretched his limbs, mumbling some sort of acknowledgment or apology, he wasn’t sure which.

After getting up and smoothing out the wrinkles in the borrowed clothing, he opened the door to a tall man with dark hair down to his shoulders.

“Good evening, sir,” he introduced stately, “I am Sergei. Are you well enough to dine tonight?”

“Much better now, thank you,” Phichit said, taken aback by the suit. He would have thought that if it were a formal dinner, Chris would have left him more formal clothing? A long tunic and simple trousers (that needed a rather tight belt— also supplied) hardly seemed appropriate.

Shelving his nerves, he followed Sergei back downstairs and toward doors that led to a banquet room with chandeliers strung above where the light streamed through. Chris was sitting at the head of the long, dark mahogany table, leaning back in his chair with a welcoming smile.

“Glad you could make it, Petit,” Chris beckoned in that sugar sweet voice. “Take a seat. I do hope you found your lodgings in good taste?”

“Thank you, and I did.” Phichit nodded, deciding on a chair at Chris’s right side. “I—”

“Milord,” a server came into the room, fashioning an apron, “first course will be out shortly.”

Phichit blinked. Lord. He was in a lord’s castle. He was staying in a lord’s castle _for free_. Phichit felt a hole open up in his stomach and swallow his appetite. Of course the handsome man that took him in had to be a lord. There had to be a price. Had to be. “L-Lord?”

Chris gave Phichit a questioning look. “Prince, actually, although I don’t much care for the term.”

Phichit shifted in his seat as several plates were laid in front of him. He didn’t feel much like eating suddenly. “Prince…?”

Another waiter came by and slowly poured a velvet wine into Chris’s flute. He held his hand up when it was filled to his liking and murmured his thanks, green eyes still on Phichit. “Yes. Prince Giacometti. Did you not recognize me?”

In a situation like this many people would have apologized, but Phichit was frozen. His lips quivered until he finally sputtered out a laugh. When he calmed, wiping the side of an eye, he cleared his throat. “As you have noted before, Prince, I am not from this region.”

“I’m wounded so,” Chris jested, “but tell me this: are you not also of royal descent? Only royalty around these nations know Common tongue, and I imagine that’s the same in further corners of the world as well.”

“You’ve done some research,” Phichit commented, forking some salad greens.

“You were an interesting puzzle,” Chris said, “and I like a challenge. So, Petit,” Chris leaned forward curiously, “who are you?”

Phichit pondered the question for a moment, but saw no harm in coming out with it. It’s not that he was hiding it, but diplomacy wasn’t his reason for traveling. He put his fork down and sat up straighter, meeting Chris’s eyes with a bit of mustered confidence.

“I am the Crown Prince Chulanont of Laithand.”

Needless to say, Chris was mildly surprised. His eyebrows arched high and his lips pursed in a low whistle. “ _Crown_ Prince. Well, it’s a good thing I took you in then,” he remarked, gently swirling the wine glass in his hand. “What sort of Crown Prince would I be if I did not host fellow royalty?”

Phichit eased back, relieved— although on the brink of being overwhelmed by the prospect of their arrangement. He felt he still had something to set straight. “I’m merely here to paint—”

Chris held up his other hand at that, taking a gentle sip before elaborating. “No need to explain. I may not know, but I understand.”

Phichit didn’t know what Chris meant by that, but he let the comment slide without much thought.

The rest of the dinner was pleasant, waiters exchanging empty plates for full ones and replenishing wine glasses when they were low. Chris entertained Phichit’s eagerness with a calm and composed disposition, intrigued by Phichit’s animated questions about the city, the language, the people— practically everything he could think of in the moment. When it came to places Phichit could paint, Chris offered to take him around the city to both the popular and secretive spots that might yield excellent reference.

Phichit decided at some point through their evening coffee after dinner was over to politely excuse himself back to his quarters. It may have been in part due to his words slurring and yawns making his body seize in a yearnful stretch, but also due to Chris suggesting it after witnessing Phichit’s consciousness deteriorate to that level. He bid Phichit goodnight and left for his office, claiming some last minute duties required his time.

Phichit was happy to see that all of his belongings had been delivered to the room, and never felt more glad to disappear underneath the blankets and pillows.

The chateau was silent that first night.


	2. nestled into the valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something incongruent about the chateau, but Phichit can't quite place it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll roll the fluff out slowly before slamming it full-force in front of you all. Don't say I didn't warn you.

The first thing Phichit did was fling open the doors and take in the bright sunshine spilling on the balcony.

The sunlight hit him just right, a beacon of light and warmth in the cool midmorning air, and he inhaled deep. The air whirred through his lungs and escaped, content, in one gentle exhale that took with it stress from his travels and left gentle contemplation in its wake.

His room, it so happened, overlooked the part of the veranda that widened to hold a small hedge garden and gazebos. Beyond it glittered the crystal blue waters of the lake, with the mountain peak rising blue and sublime in the distance. Now that he had time to appreciate the scenery, his fingers itched to press it between the pages.

Phichit could get used to being here.

He turned back to the room, still dim compared to outside, and noticed a small cart had been brought into the room. On it was a serving tray and a small note. Phichit went over to pick it up, unfolding it to find swooping cursive that was more than difficult enough to read, even if it were in Royal Common.

_For our esteemed guest— please enjoy all of the chateau’s reaches on your day of rest. ~Chris_

He regarded it privately with a small laugh under his breath. “Will do,” he promised as he lifted the tray’s cover to find slices of meats, cheese, and bread, as well as a handful of various fruits. Phichit ate most of it with a sigh of content and pocketed an apple together with a small set of his paint supplies.

The hall sang with hollow shoe clacks and wheeled carts. Portraits encased in bronze frames decorated walls between faux columns of white, special lamps shining down to highlight each paint stroke. Vases of wispy amaranthine lined doorways and carpets dulled some of the staccato, but vibrancy here never seemed to fade.

Phichit took it all in with his hands clasped behind him. His steps and wordless acknowledgments to various staff were amicable while his eyes drank in the atmosphere. Enthralled by the details he glossed over the previous day, he nearly missed the bows returned to him— a new occurrence.

The first time one of them referred to him as “Prince,” Phichit had to pause.

“Oh, you don’t have to call me that.”

The man turned around to face him, barely any older yet appearing far more serious. “Oh, pardon my ignorance, Prince… Peh-scheet?”

Phichit shook his head. “Just ‘Phichit’ is fine.”

The man blinked, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. “Of course, right. Phichit,” he pronounced with some difficulty at last.

Phichit nodded enthusiastically. “There you go! It should get easier, I hope.”

That earned an awkward smile, but Phichit figured it was close enough. It was still better than Chris’s pitiful attempt the other day, which made Phichit wonder as to why Chris gave in so quickly.

He retraced the path they took yesterday and walked outside, stretching and allowing the cordial sun to wash over him again. The air smelled of evergreen with hints of latticed honeysuckle, light and pleasantly warm. If only painting these smells were possible, he thought.

The castle, while intricate in stature, felt more like a grand statement of simplicity. The cobbled veranda that circled the estate was just as it was in the town, and the only objects to break the flow of stone were small garden strips along walls and the tops of stairways that led down to the vineyard.

And the chapel. The tiny, dissonant church that stood in the morning shadows gave Phichit prickles of unease. He wasn’t unaware of other religions, nor against any of them in particular— merely he had never been wholly religious in the first place— but the building felt at odds with everything surrounding it.

He approached it with cautious curiosity, eyeing the door open wide. Peering inside, he found there was enough room for six chairs, in three rows of two, but not much else. The chairs were a green velvet that popped against the otherwise drab interior. A stained glass window cast watery rainbows across the small pulpit, crawling over the floor with spidery sunlight. It seemed more like a place for personal prayer; somber, solitary. Resolute.

Not Phichit’s kind of atmosphere.

It didn’t seem like Chris’s, either, but admittedly Phichit knew very little about his host. It wasn’t something he was keen on asking about, in all honesty.

Phichit left the chapel almost as soon as he arrived in favor of looking at the hedge garden he had seen from his window. Up close, the shrubbery was incredibly tiny, hardly reaching above his shins and barely wider than his foot, but it still reminded him of a maze, like some of the smaller rice paddy fields on the outskirts of home— only these were less wet.

Home. He never thought he would find himself so far away from the familiar villages, crystalline beaches, or sheer cliffs rich with vegetation. Familiar people he spoke with every day were continuing their lives unaware of the happenings beyond their horizons, and he had been one of them for so long. Now, here he was pretending a hedge garden in some northern country far off of most maps was a maze, staring at his feet as he navigated it.

Phichit knew why he left, knew why his mother had been sad but encouraging nonetheless, knew why he was hesitant to call it quits and turn back around.

He hit a dead end in his little maze. Spinning on his heels, he tried another path.

Initially, it had been to spread the love he had for the place he called home, to see and capture the world with his brushes to share back home. What it had become, Phichit wasn’t sure.

A hesitant clearing of someone else’s throat broke him from his thoughts. A gardener was giving him a confused and disapproving gaze before he seemed to realize who Phichit was. Word of Chris’s guest spread, apparently.

Phichit bowed his head in apology and stepped out of the mini garden, giving his attention over to one of the gazebos in the corner.

This one looked out over the rest of the grounds, revealing a flower garden with small benches and short blossoming trees. Just past where the treeline broke, a dock jutted out on the lake like a finger tracing over satin curtains. Phichit took a seat on the bench just inside, eyes never failing to roam in wonder. The breeze raked through his hair, encouraging, and the contents in his pockets shifted, begging.

He heeded the call without a second thought and dug out the tiny canvas and paint tubes he had in his pockets. There weren’t many colors to choose from and not much room for him to experiment, but it would be a nice study nonetheless.

Phichit should have known that _study_ meant at least three hours meticulously detailing the miniscule brown board a third of the way out on the dock. Every speck of light had his eyes and hands coordinating universes into every drop of color— and the canvas was only barely larger than his palm. There were several times he swore that paint got onto his nose from having to hunch closer than he realized.

His eyes wandered toward the garden below.

Satisfied, Phichit waved the canvas around languidly to dry it a little. Not wanting to put it back into his pocket and potentially ruin it, he set it on the bannister against a support column so that the wind wouldn’t knock it over. It would be fine there until he got back.

In order to get down to the garden, though, it would require going around the veranda to a set of stairs down the back. Being impatient to check out more while there was still daylight, Phichit hopped the railing and landed on all fours into the bushes. Nettles tickled his cheeks and sticks jabbed at his legs and arms, but otherwise he was fine. A few scratches wouldn’t bother him any.

When his head popped up out of the bushes, a rose-like flower graced his face, soft white petals fluttering over his nose. An intoxicating scent of summer and heady sweetness filled his lungs. Stark against the dark green leaves, the flowers dotted the bush like a sequined dress, flickering about with the wind, flirting with his sight. Phichit wondered what he could paint to make this smell translate. Perhaps baby blues? Pearlescent pinks? Maybe there was a perfume store in town that used this flower and he could use it to spray onto this specific piece.

Admittedly, that was more work than he felt like going through.

Phichit stood and plodded about the garden, taking in every flower separately, appraising the shapes of petals and blendings of colors impossibly bright. There were stalks of calla lilies and bushes of white and purple heather, and around the center sprung short trees of azaleas and lilacs. All to their own and each complimenting their siblings and friends, shaking green hands and laughing with feathery sussurrance. Loose pebble paths habituated themselves with the grassy frays, marrying textures and colors and fragrant poise.

An hour had passed and the only thing that could grate against Phichit as he meandered was the fact that no matter how completely he replicated all that he saw, he would have the same issue with the white flowers back by the gazebo: painting by any other sense. Painting what couldn’t be seen was a challenge by no small means, and Phichit was well acquainted with this weakness of his.

Considering his hesitance with painting Chris yesterday, perhaps a small break should be prescribed before painting of any kind became his weakness.

Phichit blinked a few times, adjusting his sight to look further out. The lake was dazzling, as always, and the vineyard rows rippled over the knolls. He squinted as the sun’s rays dove out from cloud cover to shine upon the pristine walls of the chateau. Not one to prefer going blind, he padded along the shadowy side and sought after somewhere to rest.

Around the back of the chateau, a foothill climbed toward the unmarred countryside, and mountains further up. At the edge of the trees sat a red bench that contrasted all the green. It seemed to be the only shade that wasn’t right up against a building. Lying in the long grass and cloud-gazing seemed like the perfect way to spend the last of his afternoon light, so it wasn’t a hard decision to make.

Initially he tried to lay down on the bench, but the seating was a tad uncomfortable before long. Settling for the grass, the strain in his back and shoulders loosened. He nestled his arms behind his head and let the skies saturate his consciousness. Sheep wool clouds spun and swirled over the blue loom as he counted the threads.

Phichit’s breath had evened out to a rhythm so slow he thought he had become the earth and the grass and the wind, heartbeat steady with the world at his fingertips. Although he was still under shade, the heat of the late afternoon simmered around him, caressing his skin and threading his clothes with a comfortable weight.

Had Phichit sunken further into his reverie, the footfalls approaching him would have gone unnoticed. He opened his eyes and turned his head toward the sound, finding Chris making his way over with something in his hand.

Fellow prince or not, Phichit would have ordinarily gotten up and welcomed him, but he was so at peace that his muscles felt it more appropriate to fade into obscurity— how long had he been out here?

“Ah, hello, I almost didn’t see you there.” Chris was standing over him now, the curls of his hair adorning his face, blocking out a distinct patch of the sky. There was a wry smile hidden in the shadows of his face. “I happened upon this small painting by my garden. Perchance, is it yours?”

Phichit brought his arms in to rest on his stomach that now existed with a thrum of laughter. “I’d wonder how many artists you keep here if it wasn’t.”

Chris conceded to the point with a shrug and asked something with a gesture to the space beside Phichit. With an approving nod, Chris took the opportunity to sit at arm’s length. Phichit appreciated it.

“The gardener said he’d seen you come up this way and, uh— mentioned you jumping off the gazebo?” Chris raised an eyebrow.

Phichit shook his head. “Not from the roof of it, at least. It was faster than walking around to the stairs.”

Chris chuckled. “Yeah, I did that a lot as a kid. He… wasn’t too fond of having to replant the gardenias all the time.”

“The white flowers?”

Chris nodded. “A personal favorite.”

“Ah.”

There was silence for a moment when the wind blew, bringing with it the flow of sounds and smells from the chateau that bustled on continuously, although distant.

“I just came up to see how you were and say hello,” Chris explained, “so do forgive me if I’m intruding some artistic meditation.”

Phichit hoisted himself into a seated position and bowed with his hands together. “Nothing to forgive.”

“An apology custom?”

“Just a common courtesy,” Phichit paused, pursing his lips to find the words, “like a hello or goodbye.” He had never really had to describe it before, the movement so natural to him.

Chris seemed to mull it over, pursing his lips in a rather unfairly attractive pout. “Every time?”

“Not necessarily?” Phichit said unconvincingly, gazing at his lips longer than what might be considered normal. “You could, I suppose. Though I know many who don’t.”

Chris hummed in acknowledgment, plucking at the grass and smoothing it over. “Well, I apologize I couldn’t be around today to show you our own customs here in Lunerz, but I figured new environments take some getting used to. I assume things are nicer now that you’re not travel weary?”

“It’s beautiful,” Phichit commented, “not as warm as back home, but still beautiful.”

Chris’s eyes made a show of checking out Phichit’s body. “Perhaps if you wore pants—”

“What are you talking about?” Phichit retorted. “These _are_ pants. Sorta. They’re called _chong kraben_.”

They were more cloth than pants, as Phichit had realized traveling so far north, but they still contained three holes, making them pants. Technically. The two ends were twisted at the front and wrapped down between his legs and tucked back up behind him, the length falling loosely over his knees. Still pants.

“They look like a blanket,” Chris said, then, with an afterthought and a wink, “would you care to show me how they work?”

Phichit recognized the attempt— not that it was all that well disguised— and yet he still felt a trickle of liquid heat enter his veins. His voice was one difficult to deny. “You don’t quit, do you?”

Chris looked like he had stepped on a nail. “I’ll stop if you—”

Phichit laid his hand on Chris’s shoulder. “It’s a joke,” Phichit whispered low.

Chris caught on, glancing from the hand on his shoulder to Phichit’s eyes with a certain gleam. If Phichit thought he could forget the precise shade of verdant curiosity shining at him, he was wrong. They were captivating without really trying— if Chris ever really tried it would be truly something scary to consider.

Chris let out a short burst of laughter, cutting off eye contact. Clearing his throat, he changed the subject. “I have spare time nearing lunch tomorrow. How about I show you a pâtisserie?”

Phichit blinked one, twice, coming back into focus with the foreign word in his ears. “Um, sure? Will you teach me some of your language so that I don’t look like an idiot at this… patistry?”

“Pâtisserie,” Chris gently corrected. “But of course, petit. I look forward to sharing your pleasant company.”

* * *

Chris had insisted on walking arm in arm, lest Phichit trip and fall on something or _someone_ again.

_That was from a horse and I was tired,_ Phichit had argued to no avail.

_Consider it one of our customs, then,_ Chris had reasoned. Phichit, not wanting to accidentally disrupt some norm more than he already could, had gone along with it.

“Now, petit, this is the more Mergan side of town. Most people here are taught both Mergan and Fransa in schools, though. Just around this corner here,” Chris pointed with his free arm while his other kindly wheeled Phichit toward a side street that is infinitely slimmer than the road they were just on— which was saying something when the former street was barely wide enough for two horses.

“There’s _two_ main languages here?” Phichit said, righting himself.

“Three, if you include royal common,” Chris reminded him.

“I wouldn’t,” Phichit replied, “on account of nobody knowing what we’re saying while we’re in town.”

“Touché. I could say whatever I please, now, couldn’t I?” Chris had a sparkle in his eyes.

That went unanswered and Chris seemed to forget he had said anything as they stopped at a small building on a corner with a wooden sign swinging above reading: _le pâtisserie petit magnifique_. Thin, padded iron chairs circled weather-worn marble tables outside the entrance and the cobbled stone path flattened out below the faux awning. The two doors were wide open, free air flowing in and the scents of oven-baked breads floating out, a homely ecology that made its home among the bustling wildlife of Lunerz.

“Now that,” Chris waved to the sign as he opened the door, causing the bell to jingle, “is Fransa. She will probably greet us in Mergan, so I’ll ask her to switch. You just pick out what you want and I’ll tell you what to say, okay?”

Before Phichit could answer, an older woman appeared from a back room. She had greying hair wrapped in a bun and a flour- and dough-stained apron hanging from her neck. The smile she gave was genuine but peculiar. She greeted them with a small bow, a polite smile, and some question in a guttural tongue.

Chris returned the greeting, the other language somehow just as harmonious on his tongue as the other, and he gave a charming smile. He then asked something else and Phichit recognized the word _Fransa_ , or something close to it, at least.

The baker’s smile brightened with the tinge of realization. Her tongue switched as well, and Phichit realized he could more or less tell the difference. Mergan sounded like someone was talking with a raw potato in their mouth, and Fransa sounded like someone had stuffed that same potato into their nose. Interesting. He wasn’t all too keen on learning either of them, as they both sounded rather difficult, but he had said he wanted to try.

Chris and the baker continued talking for a minute. Phichit rocked back and forth on his heels, looking around. The establishment had a certain charm, warm hues of hand-carved columns framing dusty chalkboards that wrote out goods and prices that he couldn’t discern. Intricate foils of gold were etched into corners of the glass windows, giving the place a charming sort of affluence. The linguistic lilt traveled through the building with a pleasant echo, dampened by multitudes of delectable pastries that lined the shelves and lace doilies that clung from the tables like soft moss. Breathing in the atmosphere, he could appreciate why Chris liked it so much.

Phichit glanced back and forth between them now though, clueless, his arm still linked in Chris’s. Chris hadn’t ever moved to let go and Phichit didn’t want to insult anyone, so he waited with a pretty smile until he was addressed.

“Now, petit,” Chris turned to face him, and in doing so broke their contact to point at some display trays, “point to what you’d like. I’ll help you with pronunciation.”

Phichit caught the baker’s glancing glare in Chris’s direction but Chris didn’t seem to care. Following suit, Phichit swallowed the unease and brought his hands right up to the glass, eyes drinking in the colorful sights of confections he couldn’t name if he tried.

“Um, that,” Phichit pointed to a baked good that looked kind of like a cupcake. He didn’t dare try to pronounce it.

“Excellent choice, petit. Now repeat after me: Je voudrais un petit gâteau s'il vous plait,” Chris said with a slow, natural flourish.

“No?”

Chris blinked and the baker standing behind the glass understood enough to stifle her chuckle behind the neck of her apron.

“Je voudrais,” Chris slowed down.

“Je… voo-dray…” Phichit repeated.

“Un petit gâteau…”

“Oon petite gaw-toe…”

“S’il vous plait.”

“See voo play.”

Chris nodded, gesturing Phichit to try the whole thing.

“Jevoodree un petit gawtoo svooplay.” Phichit stumbled— albeit with awkward confidence.

Chris rubbed his hand down his face, eyes rolling upward. The baker seemed to enjoy the attempt, though, as she giggled more openly and flashed a smile. “Assez proche,” she said before going over to the display case and grabbing a cupcake with a wax paper napkin.

Chris stood closer to Phichit and leaned down to whisper. “I’ll order the rest,” he assured.

Phichit shrugged. “I tried.”

“We’ll work on it.” Chris’s hand ghosted at the small of Phichit’s back, a dappled warmth disappearing before Phichit could sense it.  “Anything else you’d like?”

The swirls and chunks and confections called to him, tempted, but Phichit limited himself to one or two more. Chris, apparently seeing Phichit’s hesitation, ordered at least seven and paid some amount without batting an eye. Phichit was about to protest before he remembered he had no way of paying his fair share, anyway. He pursed his lips as Chris exchanged for the over-full paper bag and a few more words.

As they were turning to leave the bakery, however, the old woman called out to them, tone sharp as a whip. Chris winced before turning around with a big, toothy smile. He replied questioningly.

She wagged her finger at him, eyes hard and accusing. When Chris laughed and waved her off, her eyes narrowed, hands on hips, but there was no response. Shooing them out the door, Chris seemed to take no offence.

They made their way back to the riverside road before Chris offered a seat at a free table along the railing. Phichit sat, allowing Chris to scoot him in.

Phichit fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “Does everyone talk to their prince like that?”

Chris sat down and doled out several treats from the bag. “She’s just complaining that I buy too many sweets. I told her half of them were yours, but she seems to think otherwise.”

Two women walked past, peering from over their shoulders and beneath their brows.

Phichit did a once over of Chris’s body, sneaking glances down the— rather open— collar of his shirt and over the bulk of his shoulders and arms. He didn’t seem to be the kind to indulge in sweets often, not unless the sweets were healthier in Lunerz than everywhere else in the world. As Phichit took a bite of some jam-filled flaky bread, he decided that _that_ definitely wasn’t the case.

Chris smirked around a mouthful of bread as his eyes skimmed the wavering crests of the river below. He nodded toward a group of swans to garner Phichit’s attention, then broke off a chunk of his food and tossed it in their direction. To Phichit’s excitement, the swans craned their necks long to nip at the offerings, swimming closer to the edge where Chris and he sat.

Phichit scooped some jam onto his finger and held it out between the iron railing bars and a swan inched closer.

Chris swatted Phichit’s hand before the swan could snatch it. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned, although he seemed more amused than anything.

“Why?” Phichit licked up the jam so as not to waste— more for himself, really.

“Do you want to lose a finger?”

Phichit knit his eyebrows together, observing his finger closely before looking at the swans again. “But they look so peaceful.”

Chris set his food down and lay his hand across the table toward Phichit, skin a creamy, smooth pale. With his other hand, Chris pointed to tiny scars that dented the inside of his palm between his thumb and forefinger. “See those? Little Miss Peaceful over there nearly took a chunk out of me.”

“Looks like someone just has a grudge,” Phichit cooed, laughing when Chris took his arm away, feigning offense.

“Try it,” he uttered.

Phichit shrugged, picking apart his pastry and cupping it in his hand between the fence gap. He had to tip his chair over, his shoulder braced against the edge of the fence, but his offering was within reach of the swans.

Their necks closed in gracefully, beady black eyes zeroing in on the hand Phichit held out. Swimming against the current, one of them darted forward and pecked from his hand. Aside from a prick from the tip of its beak, Phichit felt no pain. He retreated back upright and flashed a grin in Chris’s direction.

“They seem to like me,” Phichit said matter-of-factly.

Chris shook his head slowly. “Just wait. They’re sneaky bastards.”

“That’s not language befitting a prince, I am inclined to believe.”

“Bite me,” Chris retorted.

Phichit’s lips cracked into a wide, devious smile. “Swans took care of that for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> You can rant or rave or just plain ol' chat with me in the comments below or on [my Tumblr](https://noon30ish.tumblr.com/)!


	3. it held such beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crown heavy to bear is the one least seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked for more fluff?
> 
> Sure! c:

Several trips into town, winding around the lake with an empty mind and a full pack, and Phichit felt he had painted the entire town’s counterpart. He never strayed far from the riverside, for fear of getting lost, but the same bridges, the same shops—while pretty—could only be rendered so many times by his brushes before his mind began to wander again.

A city could only hold Phichit’s interests for so long. Most often he left at the cusp of a third week, but something about these cobbled streets whispered of secrets. Of places beautiful and hidden, not considered so by anyone that lived here; like the swallows that recovered from their flights under the eaves of roofs or the vines that climbed over stone tapestries whose stories were long forgotten.

Many people painted the towers and castles and statues of the past. Phichit wanted to capture the present, the unique commonality of life where no one noticed. Of memories being made, not those lost to time. The current state of past memories, the way they crumble, fade, change shape; that was what Phichit wanted to see.

One early morning, Phichit woke in fit of determination, snatching his clothes and hopping down the hall as he slipped on the rug while struggling his pack onto his shoulder. The halls echoed his dull, fleeting footsteps as he skirted around corners. Eyes searching.

A door opened behind him. “Petit?”

Phichit spun and beamed at the familiar face. “Chris! I was looking for you. Can you take me to the towers and show me around? I want to know everything! The entrances, the arches, the stonework, the history, the surroundings, the—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Chris chuckled in a soft voice, “easy there. You want to go to the towers?”

Phichit bit his lip and nodded a little too enthusiastically. “Mhm.”

Chris looked back over his shoulder toward the door he came from, paused, and decided something. “Alright, let’s go. I’ll buy us lunch in town.”

Lunch happened to include a small bag of… pellets? Oats? Phichit couldn’t tell, though he was on the tips of his toes to try and see around Chris’s broad shoulders. Chris had already bought them plenty, but he saw some bag in the back of the stall and asked for something else in Mergan, not that Phichit would have known in either language. Chris didn’t bother to mention it as they traveled along the bank.

Once again, even with the added goods, Chris maintained a free arm for Phichit to anchor himself. Any protest Phichit might have had about this exchange cleared away at Chris’s polite insistence.

Although the two women who walked by, whispering to each other with pointed stares in Chris and Phichit’s direction, were distracting to say the least. It happened every time they were out together. Phichit wondered as they continued on if seeing the Prince out and about wasn’t so natural a concept as it first seemed.

“This is tower Nölli,” Chris pointed toward a squat, round tower with an arch sprouting opposite the river and up into the hills. Houses were crowded right up to the wall, snuggling into their positions such that the wall was nearly missed.

Phichit craned his neck back to squint at the tower, dark against the bright sky. Slim, horizontal windows dotted the smooth stonework, and the arch going through the center was guarded by wrought iron gates and several men in uniform. It was tall enough that he couldn’t quite see the peak, but not too tall. Easy.

“That shouldn’t be too hard to climb,” Phichit surmised.

Chris laughed. “We can’t climb this one; it’s an archive filled with dusty scrolls. We’re going on the other side to see the others.”

Phichit frowned; he had only ever seen two towers from this distance. “How many others?”

“There are nine, but not all of them are open to the public,” Chris explained. “They’re barely even open to me.”

“Some national secret?”

Chris pursed his lips in thought. “Probably not. Just old, dusty, and threatening to fall apart,” he said before switching tongues and speaking up to the guards, who saluted and opened the gates upon completion of Chris’s request. “Shall we?”

Phichit took the arm proffered to him in a natural, easy flow. “Don’t trap me in a tower, alright?”

“I’ll try my best,” Chris said with a glint in his eye. The guards seemed to pay no mind about as well as the pair of ladies from before. Phichit shrugged it off.

Immediately past the gates, the path wore down to dry dirt and windswept rocks. Grasses crowded over the sides, wild and unkempt and fluttering like emerald feathers. A bank to their left sloped down to the river shore that lapped with lazy ebb and flow. Above them to the right the ground rose higher and higher with a gentle, gradual climb. Several spots on the way up broke the sea of green with wooden slats that compacted the dirt into easy steps. Wordlessly, Chris motioned for Phichit to follow up the hill.

They weaved along the path, Chris taking the lead as he began to point toward the city wall and towers. They were here long before the city reached the limits of the wall, back when wars over land control devastated populations and soiled the rivers and lakes, when violence had been necessary. Chris identified which towers were used for storing gunpowder, for artillery, one was a watchtower, and another was a giant clock, not to be confused with the watchtower, although they were adjacent peaks. Phichit made a mental note of that.

Chris prided on Lunerz’s lack of conflict for nearly twenty-five years— joking that it was his beautiful birth that brought everyone in the country to peace. Complete with dramatic pose, he pursed his lips and winked. Phichit gave him a light push, enjoying the flush and fumble that was Chris nearly losing his balance.

At least they were at the top of the hill and the ground had flattened out, Phichit had said.

That’s the worst time to do that, Chris countered.

They continued on still, until Chris broke from the path and walked further into the shin-high field. After a few steps, he dug the smaller bag out of their lunch sack and shook it, a faint, organic rattle sifting around. He clicked his tongue and whistled long and low.

“What are you doing?”

Chris held up a finger, face intent on scanning the entire countryside, and whistled again, shaking the bag.

Before Phichit could ask again, he felt rather than heard the rumble under his feet. Unable to pinpoint, Phichit angled his spine this way and that to try and find the source. Upon returning to Chris’s gaze he saw a herd of oxen lumbering, cantering, some _skipping_ their way towards them. Mottled grey, brown, and creamy fur sidled and shifted and broke the illusion of an empty pasture. Phichit stepped back. Chris didn’t budge.

Instead, the oxen—with extra _ordinarily_ long horns, might Phichit add—hovered around Chris, circling and bumping into each other, wet snouts scooting closer to Chris’s open hands.

It was the strangest thing, to see a Prince of the city among the livestock and appearing so at peace, allowing his hands to be licked and slobbered on. If it weren’t for the expensive-looking tailored trousers, which were hidden by the horde anyway, Chris would look just like any other farmhand. His shirt was loose, tapering from his shoulders, rolled up to the elbows, and the stubble on his face seemed more akin to shadows and grit, less groomed than normal. There was an unrestrained smile that took over his demeanor and lines that were usually there disappeared with a private joy.

A joy he was sharing with Phichit. _Snap._

Phichit blinked and Chris’s hand was outstretched toward him, several smaller cows swerving their heads to smell for more feed.

“Do you want to feed them?” Chris implored.

Phichit’s eyes flitted from Chris’s eyes to his hand to the cows and around again. “No.”

“Scared?”

Phichit scoffed, causing a calf to spook and stutter. “I’m not scared of some cows. I’ve ridden _elephants_. Do you even know how big those are?”

A large brown and white head butted into Chris’s side and he glanced down at the cow to smile, coo, and ruffle the fur at the top of the head. Then, considering Phichit’s question, Chris responded. “Considering I’m not familiar with a—elle-faun?—I will hazard a guess that they are, at the very least, bigger than you. Although that wouldn’t take much.”

Phichit meant to retaliate, to exaggerate as much as he could because no one else would know, and get away with it, but there was a tug on his pants. A young calf, chewing on the fabric, snorted and shook, pulling harder.

“Ah!” Phichit tried to pull the pants away from the cow.

Didn’t work.

Chris’s laughter bellowed over the hills, moving grass like a gentle wind, ringing like bells. “What was that, _mon ami?_ Not afraid of oxen, hm?”

Phichit managed to wrangle himself free but instead of shooing the calf—those pretty brown eyes got to him. Sighing, he pat the calf with tentative affection.

Then he remembered Chris was still poking fun at him. “Them sneaking up on me doesn’t count,” Phichit said with a pointed finger.

Chris’s eyes narrowed and his smirked widened. “Sure,” he agreed with a dubious lilt. He waded through the sea of cows toward Phichit keeping one hand with feed held high as the other brushed past eager, curious snouts. Making a gesture for Phichit to open his hands, Chris dumbed a pile of the oats and made an encouraging remark while copying the proper form. “It’s not hard, I promise.”

Phichit came up to a smaller cow, not quite a calf but not large by any means, and held out his offering. The cow turned away. Disheartened but not defeated, he tried the next willing participant—with similar results. Again and again he attempted, until finally, he turned to complain only to find what felt to be like a hundred cow hooves stomping on his back.

All of the oxen had gone to _Chris_ to get feed, even when there were more oats mere _steps_ away. A noise of protest escaped Phichit’s throat, which caught Chris’s attention.

“They just know me better,” Chris explained, “I come by to see them quite often.”

Phichit folded his arms, fists clenched around the unclaimed oats. “They just like you because they think you’re one of them with your ridiculous cow lashes.”

Chris didn’t respond, just smiled and shook his head as a cow butted into his stomach again. He took those single steps to stand behind Phichit, reaching around to pour the last of his feed in with Phichit’s, and cupped underneath Phichit’s hands. His fingers reached far over Phichit’s, cradling his with soft, effervescent touch. The feeling bubbled along Phichit’s arms, warmed at his back where Chris stood close, so close, and he hoped he didn’t start trembling. How embarrassing.

_Snap_.

Cow tongues slobbered over the image Phichit was shocked to find entering his mind with such clarity. He blinked and saw that a calf was using its chin to push Phichit’s hands down for ease of access, further cementing contact with Chris’s palms. Cheeks tightened, lips cracked wide, and colors—so vibrant, they were now.

Warm breath cascaded over the shell of Phichit’s ear and down his neck. “That was a terrible pun, by the way.”

Phichit side-eyed Chris without turning, fearing that their faces would be in uncomfortable proximity. “Would you prefer I mention your cowlicks? Do you pay the cows to do that for you?”

Arm muscles tensed, cording against Phichit, pressing him tighter. It wasn’t threatening, that much Phichit could discern, but then Chris broke away. Phichit traced Chris’s features, searching for any line he may have overstepped.

But Chris was laughing quietly, disbelievingly; disarmingly charming. “Is this how people in your country flirt?”

The concept in Royal Common wasn’t unheard of in Laithand, per se, but Phichit had difficulty in placing how exactly Chris meant to ask the question. Erring on playfulness, Phichit shrugged. “Yeah.”

It was then that Chris resembled his city so pure; red roof tiles painted onto his cheeks and sun rays haloing the twin green fields of fresh grass surrounded by the pale texture of houses on hills. The resemblance was gone as soon as Phichit saw it—but that was quick enough.

“So,” Chris started with what could almost be considered a stutter, “lunch? Or do you have the energy to climb some towers first?”

Phichit perked up. He stretched out his arm, fingers relaxed yet searching for that already familiar lead. “Shall we?”

Chris’s eyebrows jumped up before his lips caught on and smoothed the surprise over with a smirk. “Such a request sounds much better coming from you.”

It wasn’t far from the herd that they entered the wall’s shadows and the heat of the day cooled noticeably. The earth dipped down steep before meeting the wall, offering a sort of hollow, probably for soldiers of the past. The second tower was to their right, a wooden door closed shut and foreboding.

After Phichit set his things behind a bush near the entrance, he scanned the bright hillside behind him and turned to face precisely the opposite. Reminiscent of caves he had passed on his way out of Laithand, the stone arch was crude, cracked, yet held itself with natural stability. The door creaked open as Chris led the way in like a rabbit hopping down a hole in the earth.

The dirt under their feet was littered by small rocks and pebbles laid down through the ages, sifting and muttering secrets. In such close, dark quarters, Phichit stepped close behind Chris, eyes straining to follow the outline of his body as it ascended a tight, uneven stone spiral staircase. The air smelled like a grave dug fresh.

“Couldn’t it look more like a dungeon?” Phichit asked dryly.

Chris’s shadow paused, and there was just enough light coming from somewhere above the staircase that Phichit could see his lips were pursed, pressed against a finger in thought. “I don’t remember which of these towers was the prison chamber, but I don’t think this was one of them?”

Phichit’s stomach fell just a little. “I was kidding.”

They continued to curve left as they ascended, although Phichit was afraid to reach out for the support of the walls. Something irrational in his brain told him it would be covered in slime, or hiding unspeakable creatures. He ignored it in favor of the light that came spilling around them as they reached a sort of ground floor with even more pebbles crunching under their boots. The side of the tower toward the city was open, no wall, and light dappled through nearby trees. A fence similar to the one earlier partitioned off the town from the tower.

Chris’s features were readable again— or as much as they had been in the light— and he was undeniably amused. “Better?”

“Much,” Phichit nodded. “Are we at the top yet?”

Chris’s answering laugh bounced off the stone walls like a waterfall. Wordless, he gestured for Phichit to follow and began ascending more stone steps of the true ascent— these were far steeper, far taller, than Phichit had reason to ever believe. He was nearly crawling up the first flight where the stonework stopped and a wooden staircase ensued.

Of course, it wouldn’t seem so daunting had there been some sort of railing to grasp. Open to the ground below, it would only get further away and the thought had Phichit cowering over the steps, hugging the wall and peering through the wooden slats with a sort of numbed awe.

Chris continued like they were palace steps, each foot resting sure and firm with his gait unerring. Phichit felt he could finally hate someone for once in his life.

Another flight of wooden steps and they came to the first landing of wooden support beams, with tall, skinny windows carved into the thick stonework, nettled by wire offering a limited view of each cardinal direction. Phichit attempted to squat down to tuck into the window, but a sense of vertigo claimed his senses and he backed out before it got worse. Chris talked on about how they used to be for sentinels back when war was more of a problem, how initially there was no wire mesh to hinder archers’ arrows. Phichit tried to imagine it, but moved on when Chris went onward and upward, voice never seeming to catch breath nor break.

Two more landings and finally Phichit saw yet another cascade of light from the top of the staircase. His lungs were screaming and there was a dull ringing in his ears— although that may have been outside the tower walls; he couldn’t be sure. Regardless, the end was in sight and he could finally see a view worth painting that perhaps not many saw. An everyday wonder captured in the eyes of someone unused to the ordinary.

Chris had already climbed the last of the wooden stairs and was onto the steepest stone steps that mirrored those from the bottom of the tower. A cloud shifted and the sun streamed through the ceiling, strokes of translucent white and yellow speckled by dust spreading its fingers to caress Chris’s outline. His face turned and a small halo of green uncertainty shone in one of his eyes.

_Snap._

“Coming?”

The image shattered, but its essence remained and Phichit let out a labored breath to collect himself. “Do you ever tire?”

“I’ve been told I have quite the endurance, actually,” Chris remarked with a playful wink.

Phichit berated himself, knowing that he should have expected that sort of response, but continued onward because all of this had to be worth it, had to mean something if Chris had decided this would be their first destination.

Emerging from the dark tower at last, the outside world glared so bright both were blinded for a moment and only the sound of dozens of copper bells danced around their heads, the breeze buffeting their hair and clothes around in eager welcome.

Through the sunlight Phichit squinted; the city peeked from between battlements taller than a man and the lake glittered in the distance, a meer puddle surrounded by green, blue, purple distant crawling dragons capped with snow. Sheer cliffs dropped into the water, closing it off from the cloud-spotted sky from the horizon overhead. As Phichit’s vision adjusted, he walked up to a low crevice and peered over the landscape beheld within. Blinking, the blocks and tiles and bricks of the dense city crackled with texture in rich cream and terracotta.

Trees popped up here and there and the river snaked through the center of town, in no rush to end its journey. It wasn’t light and translucent like the waters Phichit knew of his home, but rich in mottled aegean blue and crystal green where the sunlight beamed— starlet white flashes.

Phichit’s breath was stolen by another gust of wind. He _had_ to paint this, surely many had before, but who wouldn’t?

Who _couldn’t?_

“A bird will fly into your mouth and nest if you keep it open like that.” Chris loomed in close, a deep chuckle coming from his throat.

Phichit ignored that. “Chris, this is gorgeous!”

Chris eased back, with what reaction Phichit didn’t look; his eyes couldn’t stray from the way the lake mirrored the sky with tiny white sails spotting the surface like clouds. “Isn’t it? I’ve never tired of it.”

“It’s so beautiful…” Phichit sighed, heart wishing to soar, to dowse the canvas so vibrant and real that one could jump right into the scenery.

The city thinned out the further Phichit looked, and out on the distant cape he believed he saw Chateau Meggenhorn, quite plain as it settled into the coastline with little disruption. Almost normal compared to the rest of the sprawling city.

Not very princely, but Phichit couldn’t judge when he was so foreign to it all. Perhaps not every royal person inhabited gigantic temples and palaces.

“Do you want to know why it’s called Männli?” Chris asked after clearing his throat to tear Phichit away from the sight.

Phichit glanced at Chris with an eyebrow raised, only to find that Chris was gesturing above a watch point built above the battlements. Capped upon the little red roof was an iron statue of a soldier, propped in salute and brandishing a fabric banner that flapped with the breeze.

“Meet Männli,” Chris said, “he’s our only permanent watch member in the royal guard. Solid worker, he is.”

Phichit couldn’t stop the giggle. “Dutiful, and I admire a man in uniform.”

Several answering expressions flashed on Chris’s face, too quick to name, before he settled with a disbelieving shake of his head. “I’ll remember that, petit.”

Phichit happened to catch a glimpse of something white among the green hills behind the statue, however, and didn’t really hear Chris. Nestled into the top of the valley, a white building also reminiscing of a chateau— as best as Phichit could tell— stood to look over the city. Tall windows and taller spires jutted upward.

Then it clicked: it was the building he’d seen from the town entrance, a speck from that distance and from here much, much larger. Much more akin to a palace.

“What’s—”

Chris’s hand was on his arm, tugging him in the opposite direction. “Time for the next tower! Ready to see Wacht and Zyt? They’re even taller than this one, and we can’t walk across the wall from here, so I hope your legs aren’t tired!”

And plunged back into the darkness they went, Phichit’s half-finished question left upon the tower, and carefully descended the stairs that were somehow steeper going down than they were up. Focusing on the task at hand, Phichit kept a hand on Chris’s back and practically slithered back down the steps, afraid to look down now.

He was out of breath by the time they reached the bottom, and his stomach was terribly close to crying out. “Chris, as much as I would love to see all seven—”

“—nine—”

“— _nine_ towers… I’m hungry.”

Chris nodded with a halt, like he forgot hunger was a real thing. “Of course, mon petit. Let’s get back to our things and dine in the shade of the towers. Shall we?”

Two simple words.

“We shall,” Phichit answered. His stomach grumbled in agreement.

* * *

Being on non-man-made ground never felt better. Chris grabbed the sack he had brought and pulled out a thin sheet, spreading it along the grass under a nearby tree— not really needed under the towering wall, but Phichit appreciate the placement. He began taking out various foods and Phichit decided there had been enough moments in the day that he better get to painting lest the memories slip and fade.

An easel, paints, brushes, a piece of bread with slices of meat and cheese, and an apple later— Phichit was sitting cross-legged on the sheet and pouring his thoughts onto the smaller canvas he’d managed to fit inside his pack.

But it was soon into the setting that Phichit’s mind dissociated from his fingers, watching the brush create something— not that he hadn’t seen before but still wholly unexpected. The colors were dark, bleak, streaked with shadows and particles of dust. Faint stones take shape, and stairs climb their way above the darkness toward the corner Phichit left untouched.

He tasted something sweet on his tongue, and though dissonant, his determination to see this through increased. A figure stood in the darkest corner, and the light above lit the hard edges of a jaw, the slope of a shoulder, a shock of hair that frizzed and frayed under the harsh beam of light. More than half of the face hid, turned toward the dark, but Phichit’s fingers found a sliver of green that curved sharp, alert…

Pleading.

Phichit recognized the moment with another flavor on his tongue that he chewed thoughtfully. Despite the hopes of recreating the glorious views of the city from above, his paints decided to instead paint something so bland by comparison.

Hm. Bland wasn’t quite the right word. Less cheerful, for sure. Phichit couldn’t quite pinpoint why the mood of this piece was incongruent with the moment that had occurred. A very different man stared at him— unsettling. Haunting, even.

“I didn’t know the city looked so dark from the top of a tower to you,” Chris commented, snapping Phichit out of his reverie.

Chris was watching, expression intent and curious. Phichit switched from the painting to Chris and back again, equally at a loss for what to make of the painting.

There was something pressed to his lips, sweet and tart like before. Aware enough to notice now, Phichit turned to Chris. A strawberry fell to the sheet.

“Oops,” Phichit smiled, but then gave the painting one last glance. “It can’t be that fun to watch me paint.”

“Other people seem to think so,” Chris mentioned. “It’s interesting.”

Phichit had to admit the point was valid. “For you, though? More interesting than, say, reviewing charters, or delegating tax funds? Or how about cutting giant ribbons across new buildings?”

Chris made a… rather lewd face that Phichit couldn’t unsee, paired with an equally dirty moan. “Oh yeah, those really get me going,” he said with a honey-dipped drawl.

Neither of them spoke for a second, and the heat burning Phichit’s cheeks was unwarranted. Their eyes were still locked, with no possible escape, and further and further it settled into a resounding echo in Phichit’s brain. His lips trembled and the entire situation popped into place and the laugh that burst out loud broke the silence. Chris joined in, hardly apologizing through the laughter.

Phichit wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, calming after a good minute. “But really, do you not have much to do this time of year?”

“Are you so sickened by the company of your gracious host?” Chris implored innocently.

Phichit grimaced jokingly. “More like a glorified tour guide.”

“Ouch.” Chris’s hand went to his chest, mocking offense taken. “Ah, I’m sure there’s plenty I should be doing. But today’s my day off,” he dismissed.

“Princes get days off here?” Such a strange new world he happened upon.

Chris shrugged. “If they sneak out of meetings quietly enough, sure.”

Oh. Phichit should have seen that coming. But it wasn’t exactly like he could really blame Chris. If anything about politics were similar, Phichit would have wanted to escape a midmorning meeting, too. There was only so much one person could deal with during them. Perhaps, he thought, there was a similar thing between them. He sucked in a breath. “Tell me, Chris, do you want to rule?”

No answer.

“Prinz Christophe!”

A little girl’s voice and body bounded over the hills, running and bowling straight into Chris with no force left unused. A surprised _oof!_ from deep in Chris’s chest escaped and his arms wrapped around her to protect her from harm as he fell over. Flower petals seemed to scatter from nowhere and everywhere.

Without giving Chris a chance to recover, the girl scrambled off and began chattering in rushed, flustered Mergan. Her dark hair was separated into twin plaits and her dress was ignored and frumpled as she held out a ring of braided daisies— frayed and limp but still made with care.

“Ja, ja, Rosalin, ok,” Chris spoke soft, dipping his head down and saying something Phichit didn’t catch or understand.

The girl reached up on the tips of her toes and laid the circle in Chris’s hair, embedding bright green stalks and blooming yellow and white flowers like a crown. Blond curls grabbed onto the ring like it was alive, keeping the gift in place.

“Merci, mademoiselle,” Chris said, holding her hand and kissing his thumb that he laid over the back of her hand in respect, “dankeschön, so sehr schön, Rosalin.”

Phichit understood that much.

The girl beamed a toothy smile and a giggle before turning to Phichit with intense blue eyes. She said something, although her speech grew cautious and apologetic as she fiddled with her fingers— then it sped back up again and that light returned to her face.

Phichit didn’t really know what to say, and was saved by someone calling out Rosalin’s name. He looked up to see who must have been her parents, carting a wheelbarrow with bountiful flowers and plants in all assortments, standing with knowing, half-heartedly scolding smirks. Her father spoke to her with a laugh before saluting and waving to Chris with a few words of his own.

Chris returned the gesture and called out in response as the family kept on down the path toward town.

Outside of earshot, Phichit shifted to put his full attention on Chris. “Who was that?”

Chris took a second to respond. “Rosalin was at the summer festival last year and got separated from her parents. I stayed with her until we found them, and when they came around, they were so grateful they allowed her to choose a gift for me. She chose to make— in that moment— a brand new crown of flowers. I wore it all day.

“Then, I happened upon her parents’ shop sometime later and she remembered me. Made me another crown. It’s just… tradition now, I suppose,” Chris ended with an awkward smile, a dash of pink on the tip of his nose.

Phichit found himself smiling in return, watching Chris like this. “So, what did she say to me?”

“Oh,” Chris thought for a moment, “she was sorry that she didn’t have one for you— a crown, that is— but she’ll give you one at the festival this year.”

Phichit perked up. Festivals, bright colors and quirky traditions, were _perfect_ for painting. “When’s that?”

“Uh…” Chris counted his fingers, “about a month or so?”

“Oh…” Phichit’s shoulders dropped. He had never been the person to stay in one place so long as it had already become. Another month? The thought of delaying the inevitable trip home left a sour knot in his gut.

“‘Oh’?” Chris echoed.

The thought of leaving twisted the knot further. “I… don’t normally stay that long in one place.”

A slow nod. “How long do you plan to stay, then?”

“I don’t know.” Phichit thought aloud and warred over the possibilities in his mind. The completed canvas stared at him, pinning him between it and Chris and asking a question Phichit couldn’t answer. His feet, his legs, his horse and mule, his _mind_ were all so tired, so weary of travel. It would be nice to rest. It would be nice to be at home.

“I don’t know yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed the chapter, please consider leaving comments down below. I appreciate and enjoy each and every one from you all. :)
> 
> You can find me/chat with me on Tumblr [here](https://noon30ish.tumblr.com/)!


	4. cradled in its heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if Phichit could see through Chris from the beginning, he hadn't anticipated this new side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! I'm so, so sorry this chapter has taken three months. I had most of it written early on, but then a series of events (broken ankle, loss of both cars, loss of job, loss of father-in-law, being forced to move back home, losing all my money, etc.) sort of derailed a lot of my personal progress. 
> 
> With that, I'm sorry if this chapter isn't up to par. I plan on doing a full-story edit when the story is finished (and possibly printing? idk), so I'm not too, too worried about the state of it. It's conveying what I want it to convey and it's hinting at the things I want to hint at. Please enjoy! :)

Over the next few days, Phichit painted the view of the city from the tower, grand and glorious and sprawling and timeless and kind of boring, as well as the moment they fed the cattle together. Personal, exact, true, unique. Everything he hoped for all his paintings that he somehow couldn’t see in the city view. Regardless, he planned to keep both, but if push came to shove, he would rather part with the city.

He wasn’t sure what that said about him.

Cooping himself inside the chateau may have been helpful to shake the nerves that had crawled up his spine since that eerily dark painting of Chris, but it was quite unproductive for his health. He sat up straight upon finishing the painting and rolled his shoulders back, letting the bones crackle and settle back into place. There had to be other places to go, to see and be inspired by.

Of course, when relaying the idea of a “historical present” feel, Phichit didn’t realize the language boundary may have muddled his meaning. Chris, the ever-indulging tour guide, brought him just into the city before veering right, inland, and toward what seemed to be an ordinary small park with worn paths weaving through sparse trees, dense bushes, and dappled sunlight. While promising, the space opened up to a paved semicircle around a pond that pooled in front of a sudden cliff face. Carved and relieved deep into the bottom half of the shorn rock lay a lion upon shields littered with arrows. There were letters etched above and below, in a language Phichit couldn’t discern, and from this distance it was nearly impossible to see, weathered and weary it all appeared.

The quiet hollow they had stepped into gave off that same bleak energy that the miniature chapel outside the chateau had given him on that first day. Had there been no sunlight, Phichit would have ducked out and left without a word.

“What do you think?” Chris said, his voice low but not quite a whisper, as if even he, the Prince, should not be in this place.

While not what Phichit had in mind, he had to admit his curiosity. “What does the inscription say?”

They walked right up to the ridge just over the surface of the water. It was a light, crystalline green. Phichit now could make out vines and tiny streams that trickled down the rock face, so taciturn that it seemed they weren’t actually there. The mottled grays fled over the smooth rock, mirroring in the pond below, disobeying the natural shadows of the day. Yet the sun never strayed from the lion’s head, his weary eyes and mournful mouth, and Phichit swore he could see the suffering breath of a creature near its end.

“ _ Helvetiorum Fidei ac Virtuti _ ,” Chris spoke.

“In Common, please?”

Chris shifted his weight onto one foot, eyes scanning the monument. “It means, ‘to the loyalty and bravery of the Swerz,’” he translated effortlessly. “It was commissioned by my grandfather for his father and the rest of the Garde that protected this city — and the country— from all out war. It was to commemorate those that gave their lives, and those that survived.”

The pieces clicked into place. The mood, the shift in tone upon entering this land so removed from the city it was deeply embedded in, had Phichit almost uneasy. “Which was your, uh, grandfather’s father? Among the living or the dead?”

“The latter,” Chris answered, eyes still scanning but not anything in particular; lost. “He, like my grandfather and my father after, really loved Swerz. I’ve been told I resemble him both in looks and in spirit, but I guess I just don’t see it.”

“You don’t look much like a lion, no,” Phichit remarked.

Chris turned to Phichit, about to say something, but instead he combed his hair back and ruffled it until waves and curls ran wild. He bared his teeth and his hands resembled claws. The effort was… admirable, to say the least.

“Quite scary,” Phichit said, deadpan, before his face crumbled and broke into a laugh.

A playful swipe of “claws” and a wink broke Chris’s composure as well. “The artist is also a critic, now is he?” 

“Well, for one, you smile and look very much alive.”

Even saying those words, something was off. Somehow not wholly true. Phichit pursed his lips, gazing toward the lion, tilting his head this way and that to make sense of it all. “But he’s so sad. I bet it doesn’t help that people stare at him with such solemn faces all the time.”

Chris gave Phichit a funny look. “He’s a statue.”

“And we should celebrate our people of the past with happiness and laughter,” Phichit explained. “That’s why our statues smile.”

Chris’s tongue rolled over his teeth and pushed his cheek out, absorbing Phichit’s words with a grain of salt. “Okay… how do you propose to do that for this statue?”

Phichit scanned the pond, the rock face, the stillness in the trees as the heat bore down. An idea struck. “Come closer with me?”

“How, pray tell?” Chris asked with an arched brow. “With a boat? The water’s hardly to the knee.”

“Oh, don’t even need a boat? Even better! C’mon!” Phichit called over his shoulder as he stepped off the cobbled path and into the water, splashing and causing ripples to shatter the pond’s reflection. 

No sound followed at first. Phichit spun on his heel, the water resisting his movements before echoing out. 

“My boots are  _ not _ water resistant, petit!” Chris admonished with a stern pout.

“Excuses.” Phichit waved him off and waded closer to the lion without looking back.

An exasperated sigh, some shuffling, and a delayed splash later, Chris had joined Phichit in wading through water that hadn’t known human contact probably since the sculptor, years and years ago.

“You know,” Chris huffed as he tried to wade without getting water inside his boots— and failing, “all jokes aside, we really shouldn't be  _ in _ this water, they consider it defacement.”

“I consider it a chance to pay proper homage,” Phichit returned over his shoulder, “can't see the details of the lion from so far away, now can I?”

Chris conceded to the point with a small laugh and an incredulous shake of his head. “While that may be true, I've known you long enough now to be suspect of your intention.”

“Says the one who invited me to his sex dungeon.”

“ _ Also _ a joke.”

“Mhmm.” Phichit gave a knowing look with a finger to his cheek in thought, breaking into a smile again at Chris’s pout.

Phichit stood until he had to lift his chin to look at the lion properly, still some feet away. The sculpture was smooth up close as well, but pale and parched. Curious, Phichit pooled water between his clasped hands and poured a small stream over the lion’s flank, near the granite spear. Clear droplets darkened against the rock, seeping and spreading like winds pushing rain clouds over the horizon. The vaguest storm began to brew in Phichit’s mind, an idea forming, gaining color but not ready to pour over the canvas.

Ripples of water lapped at Phichit’s calves in succession, splashing coming closer until there was none at all. “Even if the lion was thirsty, petit, I don’t think you understand the anatomy of lions. The mouth is over there.”

Phichit turned around to see Chris pointing at the lion’s head and rolled his eyes in response. He gathered another handful of water and held it out to Chris. “Humor me with the truth, then.”

Chris’s brows knit together but he reached out to cup his hands underneath, waiting for the water to transfer.

Instead, Phichit tossed the water toward Chris, splashing center over his chest. Chris gasped, shuddering in surprise as he stumbled backward awkwardly, pulling his chest in and his arms outward, his mouth in a perfect ‘O’.

Phichit hummed. “You know what, I see the resemblance now.”

Chris’s eyes darted to Phichit’s. Thick, dark eyebrows made him appear a tad bit intimidating— or would have if he didn’t also look thoroughly offended.

Then his mouth closed, lips curling into a villainous smile. “Oh, mon petit, you’ve roused the lion from it’s sleep now.”

Phichit moved away slow, back hitting the granite wall behind him. One hand over his heart and the other arm across his forehead, he turned away in dramatic fashion. “Oh no! Whatever shall happen to me?!”

Eyes closed, he didn’t anticipate the sudden rush of excitement— and what felt like a bucket of ice water— wash over him. Not to say that he didn’t really expect it, but he thought Chris would have needed more goading. 

The cold spiked his nerves, prickling his skin with goosebumps, and he let out a short, rather embarrassing shriek. He opened his eyes to see that Chris’s shirt arms were thoroughly soaked and he was  _ laughing. _ Nothing new, really, but it seemed freer. A sound richer than the gods’ ambrosia.

In immediate retaliation, Phichit kicked up, sending a surge of water over Chris’s entire front this time.

Some water must have gotten into Chris’s mouth because his laugh sputtered. “Hey!”

“My eyes were closed!”

Chris scoffed. “You lost my trust the moment you started this,” he said, bending down, readying another splash.

“No— well, yes, but— Chris— no, no, no  _ no! _ ” Phichit hopped away, or tried, because the water was slowing him and Chris wasn’t going to let Phichit go peacefully and another splash caught his back side and it was  _ cold _ .

“Chris!” Phichit scolded, but with his shivering laugh it didn’t sound so serious, so he sent another splash. He caught Chris’s face, blond curls plastering to his forehead like he were a marble sculpture.

Chris only charged forward, and a new sort of war had begun. Sides sent battalions, feints, riflemen and decoys. Small spatters of water to waves fit for monsoons were exchanged, and in no time they had circled the entire fountain, chasing each other, their clothes and skin soaked through entirely. There were no apologies, no white flags, but smiles transmitted messages on their own and joy rained on them in mimicry of their play.

Somewhere in the fountain, though, a rock jutted at just the right angle, and even if Chris knew it was there, Phichit didn’t, and he tripped and his balance disappeared and he was grasping at Chris’s coattails—

But Chris had spun around to give chase again, and Phichit hit his chest and then they were both falling, falling, down into the water, neither prepared for impact. 

They plunged underwater briefly, water swooping back in on them and catching them off guard. Phichit pushed against the bottom of the fountain and resurfaced, coughing. His nose and throat burned. “Chris?” he asked between fits.

Chris was beneath, also resurfacing with his hands bracing him upright. This close, Phichit could count each drop of water trailing down Chris’s face, over each miniscule feature, from singular hairs to the swell of his red cheeks, from the little bubbles on his lashes to the ones clinging to the tip of his chin. His chest was fighting to breathe, his breaths hitting Phichit’s face full force. 

Yet, Chris smiled, reaching up to brush some of Phichit’s drenched bangs away. “That was refreshing,” he joked, chuckling softly.

Phichit licked a stray drop of water hovering over the top of his lip, joining with his own giggles and letting his head fall, relaxing. His forehead bumped Chris’s nose and chin— lips?

Whatever part of Chris, it had been gentle, suave in delivery even if by accident.

Before Phichit could gather his thoughts on it, a voice cut through the air.

“Eu! Gehen Sie aus dem— Prinz!”

Phichit scrambled backward, only then realizing he had fallen in between Chris’s legs, had caged Chris underneath him, and his cheeks were on fire at the thought of being caught with the  _ prince _ of an entire country. Above them outside the fountain was, from what Phichit could tell of the uniform, a member of said Garde.

Chris blinked, as if he was still taking in the situation, before waving with complete nonchalance. “Hans, hallo!”

They exchanged a few words in Mergan, the Garde’s being harsher, more from the throat, and vaguely discouraging; Chris, however, didn’t sound like he was really fazed. At last they came to some sort of conclusion, all the while Phichit stood and rung out his clothing in mild confusion and severe guilt.

After the Garde left, a lingering glare in Phichit’s direction, Chris rejoined outside the fountain and swept his hair out of his face. He must have seen something on Phichit’s face, because he softened. “Hey, petit, it’s okay. I told the guard you needed some research for painting water movement.”

Phichit half-smiled, but his shoulders drooped. “I got us in trouble.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Chris promised, “and it’s not like I can  _ really _ get in trouble. They’ll just be a little more snippy for a little while until they get over it. 

“Now, as much fun as that was, I would like to change. Back to the chateau?”

Phichit sighed, still unconvinced. “Oui.”

Chris smiled in encouragement. “You’re fluent already! C’mon, petit,” he offered his arm, as he had each time before.

* * *

“Coffee?”

Phichit’s paintbrush flew out of his hand. In trying to recapture his tool, his elbow dipped a small dish of green paint over the edge of his easel and color splattered across the deck like rotten fruit. He cursed under his breath, only to unbalance his canvas as he bent down to pick up the dish. Twisting back to catch it, the green paint on his elbow smeared across the half-finished painting before it landed face-first to the floor. Phichit stopped whatever he was doing and sighed in defeat. “Hi.”

“Petit!” Chris gasped. “I’m so sorry! I thought you heard me knock and enter,” he explained as he set a tray down on the railing and kneeled to clean. “I should have thought about it. Please, tell me what needs to be replaced and I’ll have it bought or made—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Phichit put a hand to Chris’s shoulder, “it’s fine! It’s just paint and canvas. I have more.”

Chris smiled then, like he had snapped out of a daze, and shook his head. “Right. Anyway, I brought coffee to warm us up. I hope you found dry clothes quickly?”

“I did.”

Chris stood and proceeded to fix the cups for them, handing one to Phichit first. “What were you painting?”

Phichit pointed to the peaks of the towers in the distance after taking a sip of the coffee. Bitter on the tongue, he smacked his lips and kept it in his hands instead. He righted the canvas again, the tower’s top ramparts smeared by thick globs of green, and gestured to it. “Ta-da.”

“A perfect copy,” Chris joked before raising his eyebrows. “Although, I think that Garde station could use some plant life. Break up the monotony, you know?”

Phichit pursed his lips. “I was gonna restart, but I think I have an idea. Mind if I continue?”

“Mind if I stay?”

In answer, Phichit turned to the painting and began to smudge and blend the green as best he could. What started as a few scrapes and sweeps became an hour or two of dedication and memorization of every iota, every breath of color in the corner walls and the iron bars of the tower in his mind. There was no painting in front of him. He was there again, letting the wind billow his clothes and the sun warm his skin. He could feel the pebbles beneath his feet and the stone grazing over his fingertips. The sounds of the lake and the trees and the city blew in the distance, close and below but not so far that Phichit would believe he was anywhere else.

“— petit?”

“Hm?” Phichit blinked himself back into existence, more mindful this time of his materials— although the mug wobbled in his lap and splashed long-cold coffee on his thighs. He set the mug on the railing and crossed his legs before facing Chris.

“I was thinking… about your question the other day, about wanting to rule?” Chris searched for a sign of some sort.

Phichit nodded.

At which Chris sighed, long and heavy. “It’s not a question of ‘do I want to rule,’ per se. That’s irrelevant. I  _ must _ rule someday… that’s just how it is.”

_ What brought this on?  _ a voice in  Phichit’s mind wondered, but he didn’t feel the need to give it more voice than it had. The floor was suddenly more interesting. “Yeah, I get that.”

That was just how it was, for Princes. Expected, unquestioned, resolute.

“And yet,” Chris persisted, “you’re here? So far from home?”

Phichit let the sentence seep into his skin, sinking to the bottom of his soul and weighing down his doubt. He stared out in the middle distance, somewhere between the mountains and the lake but at no certain point in between. “Life is meant to be lived. I chose to make the most of it before bearing the crown.”

“They just let you march off?” Chris asked with a curious lilt. “Beyond the horizon, with nothing but artist’s supplies and two steeds?”

Phichit thought back to the calm, hot season night, his father and king sleeping, deaf but not ignorant to his son’s footsteps. The moment he stood at the top of the palace stairs, looking out past the gates and past the city that was his to inherit, he had said  _ not nearly vast for the depths of my love _ . He remembered his mother, pale in comparison to the moonlight, peering out from the palace doors. She wished him luck and kissed his cheeks, blessing his journey with her tears. Promising her then, Phichit aimed to only be gone one year.

It had already been several, encroaching a third. 

Adventurous souls were candles that burned slow through the everlasting night. Even then, he was unsure when that flame would fizzle out, but felt certain the wax that pooled around the base was beginning to cool.

“Something like that,” was the best answer Phichit could give.

Not even a breeze could stir the silence fallen between them. Phichit didn't meet the gaze he sensed directed toward him, instead glancing back to his work. The comfort of his paints seldom felt so grating as it did now, the brush in his hand an anchor caught under a rock. Strokes were slow, thoughtful thoughtlessness, as he tried to rid his mind of his mother’s tears and the estimate of how many more times since then she had cried, and if she was crying now.

He wondered if his city sobbed, like colors of the sunset bleeding onto buildings mourning the loss of day.

“So, best city? Worst?”

Phichit’s hand paused; today was offbeat from every rhythm he knew. “Huh?” 

“Of your travels,” Chris explained, voice tentative as it drew into focus, “I'm sure they weren't all as hospitable as yours truly,” he added lightly.

Phichit, glad for the escape, lit up. Setting his brush down, he spilled into stories upon stories of pictures and people past. Smiles and shouts, some cheerful and others deceiving, and plenty more who were far less discreet. Chris would compare to places he had been, too, adding nasally voices and exaggerated facial caricatures. The conversation had them laughing and nodding along, recognizing and empathizing, finishing sentences with wild inaccuracies that would sputter into nonsense.

“So, what was so bad about Port Constance?” Chris asked through a chuckle.

“Mostly just finding a cheap boat to take me across the sea. I almost had to turn back home. I mean, who pays half their name for a seat in the gallows?”

“Surely can't be as bad as attempting the North Sea just to meet an  _ advisor _ to the King of Nordje.”

“He couldn't meet you himself?”

“He could hardly spare a rowboat!”

“I’d have preferred the rowboat,” Phichit pointed out. “At least that would have kept me busy.”

“I was busy trying not to relieve my stomach, in all fairness. Three days over that sea felt like eternity at the gates of hell.”

“Are you calling the Nordje King ruler of the underworld, then?”

“You said it, not me,” Chris pointed out.

“That won't be my story should I visit him next,” Phichit quipped, the words coming from his mouth before his mind could filter. The idea of leaving hadn't solidified quite yet, so to hear his own words carved into the air like truth stung something harsh.

Nothing came after that. 

Then Chris smirked, shaking his head, and the conversation effectively stopped. The late afternoon air grew still and it was as if the bustling city began to nap, affording each of the princes a sort of peace and quiet unknown to their kind.

“Well,” Chris’s posture changed, merging closer, and his arm loosened, as if wanting to stretch closer… “I’m glad you’re here for now.”

Phichit could feel the heat of Chris’s palm reaching the top of his thigh; he was already welcoming the contact, the assurance.

“Prince Christophe!” A handmaiden appeared at the balcony doors, holding curtains aside. Her face was pale.

Phichit didn’t want to count the number of times they had been cut short either by their own mouths or those of others. The desires of the fates seemed to earn glee from half-finished torture. He shuffled to the side opposite Chris, looking at the girl over his shoulder with a carefully neutral face.

“Oui,  Amélie?” Chris spoke, his accent and entire demeanor shifting.

She answered back in Fransa, too muddled for Phichit to parse. Chris got up, resigned in posture, and offered Phichit an apologetic glance. “I’ve a matter to attend. Will you finish painting by dinner?”

Phichit was sure he would not if left to his own devices today. “Send someone up for me?”

“Of course, mon petit,” Chris bowed slightly, “I shall see you again soon.”

* * *

Phichit did not get spooked a third time and definitely  _ did not _ knock any more of his materials all over the place when the same handmaiden reappeared to guide him to dinner. Upon entering the dining area, Phichit was met by Chris at the head of the table as always, and this time accompanied by the man Phichit remembered as Sergei and a new person. This man was bald and wore round spectacles, but rather than appearing as a scholar or librarian he came off more as veteran general. Phichit bowed deep on instinct. “Hello. I’m sorry, I seem to be late.”

Chris’s eyes were the first things he saw upon receding from his bow, warming as Phichit walked up to his seat at Chris’s left side — the right side had been taken by the other two. “Welcome, Phichit. You’re in time.”

Phichit scooted in his chair and sent a questioning glare to Chris. He’d never been able to pronounce his name before.

“May I introduce you to my advisors, Sergei, whom you’ve met before,” Chris said as he gestured with an open palm to the man Phichit remembered upon his first day, long brown hair and gentle eyes, though he also had the same silent question in his glance, “and Karpisek, Duke of Zichur. Karpisek is my father’s right hand man, visiting for a few days. Karpisek, Sergei, this is Prince Phichit Chulanont, Heir to the Throne of Laithand.”

The man named Karpisek — the Duke of a city Phichit hadn’t heard of, not to say that Phichit really knew what a Duke was either, but he assumed it to be an important position — spoke next, more friendly that Phichit initially gave credit for. “I am honored to meet our surprise guest of such esteem. Christophe here has told us all good things about you, including your skill in the arts. I am inclined to see some myself sometime, if you so please.”

Phichit smiled through a mask that had been collecting dust, settling into his seat as soups were laid out. “Thank you kindly. I’m sure I can even spare a piece or two, should they be to your fancy. I usually make them to share.”

Karpisek nodded along, eyes lit up in interest. “And a wonderful mission that is. I’m sure as a painter you’re never in any shortage of your creation. Is painting passed through Laithand royalty?”

“Ah, no,” Phichit thought about how to word it in Common, “it’s actually a rather accessible hobby. Many of my people take it on as a job painting our stories on temple walls.”

A sage nod was shared between the other three, Chris’s lips already forming a question that Phichit wanted to hear.

“An invaluable part of your culture,” Karpisek said before Chris could articulate anything, “how noble to carry it with you— which pulls at me to ask, what has you travelling so far without anything to denote your status?” Although he didn’t point, Phichit knew he was referring to the simple clothes he wore day in and day out. Whether it was by cultural ignorance or blatant accusation was difficult to discern. “Christophe mentioned he found you painting in the streets?”

Phichit smiled pleasantly while inside his head he was scrambling for an acceptable answer that didn’t sound offensive.

Sergei, however, seemed to catch on. “Ah, Karpisek…”

“My apologies, Prince Phichit,” Karpisek said, “I don’t mean to question so intensely. From what I’ve heard, Christophe has taken quite the interest in you, and you seem to be— rightly so— of equally interesting character. I do hope I haven’t spoiled your meal.”

“Oh, no, sir. Everything is just as delicious.” Phichit hadn’t taken a single spoonful of his soup.

Sergei turned more directly to Karpisek and Chris, diverting the conversation to something more in common with them that Phichit didn’t care to follow. Half of the titles were unintelligible to him, anyway. On the occasion, even through the main course, Sergei would side-eye him with a look akin to sympathy, for which Phichit was partially grateful. He wasn’t sure what to think of Sergei as they hadn’t exchanged many words before, but his presence at the table was, for the moment, welcomed.

“Ah,” Karpisek had cleared his throat, silencing the metal  _ ting _ of forks against plates, before delving into careful Fransa.

Phichit pretended to understand, but in reality he only caught Chris’s full name in what sounded like a question.

Chris sent a silent apology in Phichit’s direction before answering in a low voice, Fransa spilling from his tongue so seamlessly that Phichit could have thought Chris was speaking Common.

Sergei spoke at that point, and Phichit recognized  _ petit _ among the second question pointed in Chris’s direction. The still air bore down on the table and Phichit pretended to delve into the craftsmanship of the silverware with enthusiasm.

“Christophe?” Karpisek raised an eyebrow.

Chris’s next words were terse, clipped at the edges and wearing a thin veil of formality. Whatever the answer was, Phichit knew it wasn’t about how the food came out, to say the least. Even in his own stomach, the luxurious food sat sunken and heavy.

Sergei’s eyes widened and he leaned in. He asked something in a near whisper.

Chris refused to look at them, eyes staring firmly down. Phichit wanted to reach out and help him, shield him from whatever interrogation they deigned him unworthy to hear. He shrugged as he answered in what seemed to be the negative.

Sergei scoffed and Karpisek paled, babbling nonsense like he was scrambling up the side of a falling cliff. Finding purchase, his frantic speech quickened with a tinge of disbelief. Phichit swore he picked out a name, but having not heard it before, he couldn’t be confident.

Chris retorted, the word for friend spitting out of his mouth like poison, his head tilting childishly as he tried to bite a forkful.

Sergei immediately repeated with a separate phrase, but with none of the few words Phichit knew in Fransa.

Chris swallowed, correcting and breathing sharp and deep. “Do we really need to discuss this here? It’s rather rude to peti — Phichit.”

Everyone took a breath as well, the room calming but no less intimidating. Karpisek led in with measured words, assuming a normal pace halfway through. Phichit recognized  _ chateau _ and saw Chris’s tongue press hard against the inside of his cheek, biting back words.

Sergei played along with Karpisek, suddenly baiting him with a pointed look in Phichit’s direction.

Some sort of revelation seemed to dawn on Karpisek as he stared Chris down with a ferocity Phichit hadn’t seen on anyone in this city yet. The words  _ Christophe _ and  _ Prince Phichit _ and  _ pr _ _ — pres— prostit _ — Phichit narrowed his focus to piece apart the word.

Chris set his fork down — or dropped it forcefully. “I think I’ve had my fill. Phichit?”

“Uh. Sure, yeah. I — I’m done,” Phichit pushed his plate away and stood.

“Shall we, then?”

But Chris didn’t offer his arm, and instead marched out of the room and down the hall toward the staircase. Phichit followed out of bewilderment, still bowing to the other two as he left as well.

At the top of the staircase Chris waited for Phichit to catch up, then holding his arm out and slowing their pace to a pensive crawl.

The halls echoed in silence, a breeze from outside pattering against the window glass at the far end. Dazed and yearning to comfort, Phichit pushed in a little closer. Chris didn’t seem to mind, didn’t seem to realize, either.

If it had been about leaving his meeting early the other day, Phichit wanted to apologize. If it was about Phichit taking up a room that should be for another  _ expected _ guest, Phichit wanted to make it right. If Phichit was a distraction to Chris — being a prince with more active duties than Phichit had currently— well, he would have to leave. Leave the chateau, the city, the journey… it had been in the back of his mind for some time.

But Phichit found that he didn’t want to leave—not yet. If anything, Chris needed him here, but perhaps that was more a projection than necessity.

“Chris.” Phichit stopped walking; waited for Chris to take notice, to wake from his distracted mind and turn around.

When Chris did turn, however, his gaze was hesitant, distracted. “Petit?” he whispered.

Phichit bit his lip. “I don’t know you that well, and it’s not my place to impose, but know that I understand. A — a little. And know that you can talk to me about these responsibilities and troubles you’re having. Venting helps and… I don’t know if you consider me a friend, but… I’m here to listen.”

The only response was a blink, then another. “There’s no need to burden you,” Chris said at last, a crack forming in the brick wall.

Phichit hammered that spot. “You admit it’s too much?”

“I’m admitting I’d rather not trouble my guest,” Chris corrected. “They meant well and were checking in on me. Why they chose to keep it from you I don’t know.”

“Because it was about me. They were cornering you,  _ hounding _ you. If any of it’s my fault, I want to help—”

“Petit.”

Phichit held up a finger, effectively shutting Chris’s mouth. “Chris, I’m serious. You don’t have to, but I’m just telling you, I’m here. As a friend, confidant, what-have-you. It’s not like I can really tell anyone.”

Thoughts appeared to swim around in Chris’s head, his body more fluid in its hesitancy. His lips rolled inward, his teeth draining the color from them as his eyes looked far off. Phichit waited with the patience of a holy man.

At last, Chris looked at him, almost sheepish. “Would it be forward of me to ask something of you?”

“I’m not sleeping in the sex dungeon.”

Chris laughed. “That’s not a room you sleep in, petit. I was thinking... more of a hug. But we can discuss your option later.”

Phichit couldn’t help the reciprocal laugh. He held his arms out in open invitation, and no sooner Chris closed in, arms gliding around him in a much-needed embrace. Phichit heard Chris’s breath even out, his breath tickling Phichit’s hair. 

Unlike in the fountain, here Phichit was aware of every inch of Chris touching him, from fingertips to collarbone and chin, open chest and vulnerable throat. Phichit’s own arms held his waist— smaller than he had anticipated but solid and present— while Chris captured the universe between his hands. Not that Phichit thought that highly of himself, but rather, Chris had a way of making this moment feel like the only thing in this universe. Even though Phichit intended to comfort Chris, this felt like the other way around. Neither threatened the moment, no matter how much time passed.

It was a long while before Phichit sucked in a breath. “Uh, Chris?”

An answering, soft grunt. Gentle, borderline uncertain.

“How long of a hug is customary in your country?” Phichit asked, cheeks pressed into Chris’s clothed chest.

“Depends on the importance of the situation,” Chris said, voice contemplative. 

Phichit gave it some thought. “Is this an important situation?”

Chris pulled Phichit in tighter, but rather than overbearing, Phichit melted into the touch. He marveled at the spectacularly ordinary notion that another human being, from worlds away with such different views and experiences and knowledge in entirely different languages, could be understood on the simplest level of a heartbeat.

“Yes,” Chris answered before unwrapping himself and stepping back, “but I suppose it is time to retire. I will be in town most of the day tomorrow, so I may not see you. Perhaps plan for another day?”

“What’s the next site we see?”

Chris wrought a devious smile. “I don’t know yet.”

Phichit nodded. “Surprises. I like them.”

Time slowed and the stillness that permeated between them should have been awkward, and perhaps it was, but only in slight. “Well, your room’s here. So,” Chris stepped over and held the door open, “goodnight, mon petit.”

“Bonne nuit,” Phichit said, praying he pronounced it right. 

Chris’s hidden smile before the door cut him out of view told Phichit very little, but there was a soft thud against the adjacent wall that had Phichit guessing with the bite of his lip and a skip in his heartbeat.

It was a strange feeling, to be left wishing for more when he used to have the world at his paint-stained fingertips.


	5. but was surrounded by thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phichit doesn't rein himself in fast enough and gets a reality check colder than the fountain water he was splashed with earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly surprised how quickly I was able to churn this out. And, well, the characters have taken their own paths so at this point I'm just along for the ride, aren't I?
> 
> Time for a new character! Please imagine her voice to be like [Jester from Critical Role!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRMNI5sIjTM) I hope you like her! :)

In a matter of two days, the world fell out from under Phichit as he stormed off, paint staining the mask he tried to wear so well.

* * *

One week’s end every month bore the Offenmarkt, a valley of colorful silks and foods brimming with the city’s wildlife chittering about. Farmers and artisans from near and around set up stalls of varying shapes and sizes, and alleys were lined with performers and plays and painters. Phichit, however, was a creature unfamiliar, and thus had no paints with him that day.

There had been no sign of Chris in the chateau that morning, but Sergei happened to be at the bottom of the grand staircase. He had suggested the market if Phichit was looking to stock up on painting materials—Chris had mentioned the paints spilling, it seemed.

And so Phichit found himself in a sea of Fransa and Mergan. Old and young were running and jumping and ebbing like waves playing at a rocky shore. His attempts to communicate, to tread the water, were feeble at best. Managing to count and point with his fingers, Phichit now had a bag holding beetroots, cherries, carrots, and sunflowers that he would have to grind later for his paints. His eyes scanned over heads and between arms and stand poles for the colors he was missing. The stalls stretched on, twisting like a snake around the open square, and Phichit feared after he was done that he might not find his way out.

Happening upon his last purchase of blueberries and lilac sleeves, his bag still had room for more—although his coin pouch said otherwise. The currency wasn’t easy to keep track of just yet.

He came across jugglers and two-man plays and decided to watch for a bit. Often if they needed a participant they pointed him out, and he would try his best to follow instructions that meant nothing to his ears. At least it made the children laugh, and the shows were quite fun, so Phichit did not mind.

Then there was a table piled chest-height with books, and he figured it wouldn’t hurt to glance through some. Mergan and Fransa used the same alphabet as Common, so he could at least attempt to sound out the words and guess what they meant if a book had enough pictures. While he yearned to know the kind of tales this land held, what their heroes did and what sorts of problems they overcame, it would be a long time yet that he would come to understand. He bit his lip, wondering if Chris could tell him stories sometime. Childish, he thought as he set down another book he’d pretended to read.

Out of the corner of his eye, a woman was tending to the books and a young boy—her son?—gave her a handful of thin books, sneaking glances in Phichit’s direction. The boy ran back inside a nearby building when he saw Phichit looking at him. Smiling to himself, Phichit scanned over the rest of the nonsensical titles and meant to turn away.

But the woman set one of those thin books in his hands.

Phichit blinked. “Uh, what’s this? Quoi?”

The woman tapped on the book and spoke slowly. “Das’t der Erste Leser,” she said, as if saying anything slower would have been a magical translation. Phichit scrunched his eyebrows, causing her to laugh and gesture between the book and him and the book again. “Erste. Leser. Für dich, bestimmt,” she pushed the book further into his arms, “für _dich_.”

Phichit opened the book, finding big words underneath bigger pictures, and understood then, looking her in the eye. “Are you sure?”

His hesitancy came through, and the woman shooed the book one last time. “Ja, ja, oui, yes. Und,” she picked up more of them in succession, “Fransa, Mergan, Royale. Dieses Buch hier, und dieses auch.”

“Oh!” Phichit scrambled inside his bag for the coins. He couldn’t just take these books without offering: “Geld?”

“Nein, nein, nein!” she insisted. “Für dich. Lese!” She instructed, miming an open book, a finger tracing invisible words. Tapped her head. “Lerne.”

That word sounded too much like “learn” to be mistaken. Phichit nodded. “Yes, yes of course, oui, I will. Thank you! Merci, danke!”

The woman chuckled. “Bitte, bitte.”

Without wasting a moment, he bagged the books, careful of his other cargo, and delved right into the first book. He slid himself back into the gentle flow of the market, reading out loud to himself.

“In Swerz,” Phichit repeated, simple enough, as he looked at a map of what he presumed to be this country, “gibt es… diese Stadt.” A picture of several buildings close together, a town of sorts. “In der Stadt… ste—ht, steht, dieses… Wohn… haus?” A singular building. Phichit pursed his lips and stared so intently that he may or may not have bumped into a barrel and apologized. He would have to spend his nights reading and studying. Promising to do so starting tonight, he tucked the book away and took in his surroundings once more.

Near a fountain and some occupied benches Phichit leaned against the marble and observed. Outside looking in, the flow of the city reminded him of a breathing beast. The heartbeat of people that would move in unison was the current beneath the fur that rustled in the wind, directed this way and that, buffeting from shop to shop. Performers the ears, bakeries the infallible nose. But the eye, the soul of the beast, Phichit could not find in the few minutes he had made up his mind to try something new in his paintings.

So it was like a moth to a flame when he finally spotted Chris. He again wore plain clothing in muted colors that clung to and draped from his body in just the right ways. His hair, unique in tone, was easy to pick out and easier to imagine touching, threading fingers through its texture…

For his painting, Phichit corrected himself. For that painting he still had trouble finishing—a first for him. He ignored his ineptitude in favor of waving for Chris’s attention.

Before their gazes met, a part of the crowd dispersed and revealed a woman on Chris’s arm. She was in a sunlit dress cinched at the waist, sharing an unheard laugh with Chris when he turned in Phichit’s direction. Her hair a reddish brown, the wind and light favored it, copper blazing in flyaway pieces. His hand laid on hers as he spoke directly to her. Phichit recognized it as the way Chris acted around him, too. A true gentleman as he was every day, and Phichit was relieved Chris wasn’t faking his kindness. Yet there was this weird weight in the pit of his stomach. Lunch must be around the corner.

It appeared that a night’s rest was what Chris needed because he was mirroring the upbeat rhythm of his city today, bright and smiling and talking with his hands as he brought the woman with him over to Phichit. A smile involuntarily pulled at his lips as they neared.

“Phichit!” Chris called out as they met midst a caravan of gallivanting children. “I’m glad to see you finding your way around town already! How is it so far?”

This was a welcome change from Chris’s mood the previous day, and the pleasant demeanor was shared on the woman’s face as well. “Hey, Chris, it’s been good! How are you doing today?”

Chris nodded with enthusiasm. “Great, great!” Then he turned to his companion. “Louise, this is Prince Phichit of Laithand; Phichit, this is my friend Lady Louise, Karpisek’s daughter.”

Louise proffered her hand, palm down and pinkie finger pointed up. “It is so nice to be meeting you,” she greeted with an accent thicker than Chris's.

“Likewise,” Phichit said as he took her hand and bowed his head, his curiosity of her mixing with the weight in his gut.

“Laithand sounds so far away!” She snuck a knowing look toward Chris. “I did not know you had taken to such exotic meat, Christophe.” Her sentence ended with a snicker, laying a delicate hand over her rose red lips, and Chris could only stutter into a nervous laugh of his own.

Phichit wasn’t entirely sure of her use of Common nor its meaning, so he half-smiled and glanced at Chris, hoping for clarification.

“Non, non, mademoiselle,” Chris corrected with a cough. “He’s a dear friend of mine. We’re discussing options of trade to bridge between our countries.”

Phichit clued in and ran with it. “I suggested a primary shipment of more _potent_ spices.”

Chris threw him a playfully vengeful glare. “What he is _really_ saying is that our food is too bland.”

“To be fair,” Louise pointed out, “you are also not greatest of cooks.”

“He’s cooked before?” Phichit exaggerated his surprise. He hadn’t ever imagined the Prince cooking before, but now the picture was one he could nearly see.

Louise leaned in to whisper. “It is better to believe he hasn’t.”

“I feel betrayed,” Chris butted in, which had them all giggling at his expense. Chris didn’t seem to mind, his eyes still warm and inviting.

Arm still around _her._

When Louise recovered, she cleared her throat. “So, how long are these negotiations? Do you plan to go back home afterwards?”

Caught off guard by the question he would dread the rest of his days here, Phichit’s brain shut down instead of formulating a proper answer. “I, oh, uh, well—”

“Since travel between Laithand and Swerz takes so many months, his stay has been... extended to give him proper rest,” said Chris.

Louise hit Chris’s arm with the back of her hand, lighter than a smack but still firm. “Chris, have you not learned it is rude to be interrupting people when they talk? Shame on you. Is that so, Phichit?”

The way she asked was innocent enough, a lilt in her voice and a curiosity on her tongue, but it pierced through, demanding an answer. There was an intelligence gleaming in her eyes, undermining and upheaving their thin excuse like a shovel to dirt.

Phichit thought carefully. “Travel does make a body quite weary, so yes, I took the offer to rest up completely. I’m very grateful to Chris for opening his doors to me.”

Louise made a noise of understanding, an ‘o’ formed by her lips, nodding once. “I’m sure he was rather _inviting_ ,” she said, shimmying against Chris in suggestion.

Phichit felt his cheeks burn and could offer no response.

“W-We should be off, Louise.” Chris pulled at her arm. “Your father wanted to speak with us when we returned. You and I both know we really shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Louise pouted. “I suppose,” she conceded before speaking to Phichit, “I hope we get to be speaking again soon, yes? Au revoir, Phichit!”

“Bye!” Chris called as he spun them around and walked off.

Phichit waved them goodbye, the motion tentative. It wasn’t until they had nearly disappeared that Phichit realized he was still watching them. Louise glanced back over her shoulder, eyebrows knit together as they stared at each other for a brief second.

That uneasy feeling in his stomach returned.

* * *

True to his word, Phichit began to study the materials gifted to him after a lonely dinner of an apple and cheese up in his bedroom, courtesy of Amélie. When she saw the books on his desk, her eyes lit up and she began to speak with excitement, hands clapped together. She pointed and picked up one, handing it to him.

“This one,” she said, “very good for Fransa.”

It was another early reader type, like the one he'd read this morning. He took it in both hands. “Oui, Amélie. Merci.”

And so there he started, sounding words out as he went along. It behaved nothing like the way he heard it in the streets, and he had chalked that up to dialect until halfway through when he realized there was a pronunciation guide in the back. Glad no one had heard his numerous errors—Chris was not back yet, probably still out with Louise if Phichit had to guess—he set the book down and switched over to Mergan for awhile. It wasn't long into that book either that he paused, ransacking the desk for paper and pen, and began to take notes.

Hours passed, candles lit and relit, and countless conversations between himself had transpired. When he was about to turn another page, the most recent candle sputtered. Nothing but a pool of melted wax and the last burning frays of the wick remained. He pulled out another candle from the drawer and struck a match, the room lighting up again. Perhaps, he thought, it was time for bed. His brain was heavy, wanting to implode, and he didn't dare check the clock behind him.

A thud outside his room and light stumbling footsteps alerted Phichit to the arrival of—most likely—Chris. At the very least wanting to wish him good night, Phichit got up and pressed against his door, hand on the knob.

Low voices could be heard conversing, however, and Phichit didn't want to intrude.

That wasn't going to stop him from listening. Just a little bit.

Opening the door a sliver, Phichit angled his head to peer out inconspicuously. He was right about it being Chris, and Louise was with him too, her back to Phichit's door. Chris was leaning against the wall, his head lolling heavily and his eyes drooping, whether out of tiredness or something else, Phichit could not discern from this distance.

The only light from an oil lamp above them flickered. He could see that Chris's gaze was bleary, watery. On his cheek was Louise's hand, dainty by comparison.

They were speaking in Fransa, Louise's tongue faster and sharper in its fluency. She had an urgency in her voice as her hand fell from his face. He shook his head.

His next words were less eloquent, blurred and slurred and laden with emotion. It was when he tried to stand up straight that Phichit noticed the unsteady sway. Chris put his hand on her shoulder, letting it trail down to her wrist, holding her hand tight.

Louise's voice rose, terse and scolding. She took her hand away.

Chris deflated his shoulders as a tear fell from the inner corner of his eye. It caught the light as he lifted his face to the ceiling and smiled, as if in pain. His voice was whisper-thin, cracking on several syllables in a weary cry.

Between bickering and consoling, they went on for some time. Phichit had to close his door due to that knot in his stomach returning. This time, however, he thought he could pinpoint it, although he wasn't proud to admit it to himself as he had never been this way as far as he was aware.

Chris had his _friend_ to confide in already. He wouldn't bother translating his worries and fears into Common for a foreigner's sake, a visitor who didn't even plan on staying here in permanence. How stupid.

Phichit’s lips trembled, frightened at the anger and disappointment stirring in his heart. He didn't like it, didn't feel like himself, and he pushed it down with his consciousness as he finally fell asleep that night.

He never felt so far away from home.

* * *

The early morning greeted Phichit with birds, plants being watered, and stones being trotted upon. He in turn presented newly pressed pigments mixed into what he had left of his paint base and a bag packed with canvas and brushes. He figured the last day of the Offenmarkt would be as good as any to sell what he could and practice his meager language acquisition.

Practice made perfect, after all.

He took Poppi out of the stables and cantered into town, focusing on his closest friend he had in this world for the moment. He brushed her mane and fed her some carrots and spoke to her in his native tongue, settling into the flow of his thoughts to his woefully silent conversation partner. Her ears flicked back and forth in response. Phichit wasn’t bothered by it. Just knowing they were a team, having traveled endless days together, made him feel better.

When he got into the market he settled down by the fountain and tied Poppi’s lead to a spoke, hoping no one would say otherwise. He set off around the square, stopping people and offering whatever conversation he could.

Most did not seem to care, and many kids who would respond spoke too quickly for Phichit to parse. Shopkeepers were delighted and talkative, too, but kept their sentences simple. Mergan appeared to be the majority, and while his efforts had gone into understanding Fransa, he was glad that Mergan’s simple sentences were pretty much formulated like Common.

“Oh, you are the Prince’s—,” the baker from the patisserie said, recognizing him.

“Yes, I, uh,” Phichit would fumble, “what is—?”

The baker made a motion with her hands. “Um. Night friend.”

“O-oh, no!” Phichit answered. "He is, uh, my… host?”

She nodded. She then said something, wagging her finger at Phichit, but he couldn’t quite catch it. “Take care. Chris is sneaky.”

Well, the word had either been “sneaky” or “holding.” Neither really made sense as far as Phichit knew of both Chris and the Mergan phrase, so he nodded and bid her goodbye. She watched him with pitying eyes as he left.

Another lady, escorting multiple children through some massive feat of willpower, seemed at her wits’ end when he came up to ask if she needed help. She denied at first. As the kids flocked toward him, commenting on things he couldn’t translate if he tried, she regarded him more closely.

“Say,” she began, “the Prince. He is your friend, yes?”

It was in Fransa.

Phichit was almost shocked. “Yes,” he said, although last night came to mind and a shadow of doubt passed over his face.

“He is treating you nicely?” She asked. “He is wooing you, too?”

Phichit couldn’t say for certain he understood, so instead of a yes or no, he tried to form a coherent sentence in a language he began learning in earnest mere hours ago.

“He is kind and, uh, nice. He is fun to, er… talk to.”

The woman pursed her lips, pausing the conversation long enough to instruct a kid to behave, and returned her stare. It was not menacing nor patronizing; inquisitive, maybe. She picked up a younger girl and brushed her hair away. “Please, be careful. He plays with all the pretty people. Men and women. You are not from here. You are easy. He plays easy people like a violin.”

Phichit had leaned in, ear toward her, trying to parse through the words and put the sentence together in his mind. He was successful for the most part. The words were spoken ominously enough so he figured that was that on the matter and bid her good luck with the children and goodbye.

Others talked to him about food, flowers, yet others pointed to objects and gave Phichit their names in both Fransa and Mergan, and yet _more_ others mentioned a ball or dance of sorts coming up, as well as a Lichterfest, whatever that was. Some woodcarver sold Phichit a thin, stretchy paper and a wooden contraption, pointing to a lamp post and saying it was for the Lichterfest, miming a glowing light set on the river. It seemed to be a cheap deal, so Phichit went for it.

He put the materials in his bag and decided to start painting before he ended up spending all his money.

The idea of the city being a beast had set his mind alight yesterday, and that fire still simmered. The problem, however, was that he could not see the beast. Not as he thought it was. It wasn’t _there_ , and thus, how could he paint it? He stared at the people milling about, same as the day before, and yet, he could not force the image of a physical beast to manifest.

He settled for laying out the pieces he planned to sell and whipping out a tiny sketchpad to vent his frustrations. Doing better at selling this time around, knowing the few words he needed to say, he eventually transferred back to his easel and canvas. Just a few ordinary pieces of the market—without Chris’s golden hair to serve as a focal point—would have to do. Not that it bothered him, not being able to paint Chris. His track record with accurately portraying him, by his own high expectations, was not great. There was still something missing, something he wasn’t capturing.

And now he was sure Louise was a part of that mystery.

Speaking of, she entered the square, alone, peering about with determined focus. Phichit was already sinking into his painting, the universe of paint strokes that flowed like the blood in his veins, and hadn’t noticed with more than a fleeting glance.

The sky always began light, building with the heat of the day, blossoming with light greys and blues and whites of the clouds. The giant trees and buildings further in the hills were tiny specks, dull and pale, growing as they did in lush detail towards the city. Rooftops and shop faces were painted halfway down when he paused, roaming the land he created. He wondered what movement he would put where, which people would be at this shop, which faces would be looking his way.

“Your paintings are so lovely,” a familiar female voice said.

Phichit started, his head snapping around to see Louise standing there, hands clasped at her front and an innocent smile on her face. “Ah, thank you, my lady.”

“You can call me Louise,” she reminded him, “that is what Chris calls me.”

Phichit took that in with an absent nod. Being taken away from his painting groove was annoying, sure, but he wasn’t impolite. “I take it you two know each other well?”

“Close since childhood,” she said, searching for the right words, “and, friends since before I can remember, I suppose.” Her thumbs twiddled. “Do you mind if I watch you paint?”

No problem there. “Join the crowd. People enjoy it, apparently.”

Louise didn’t move. “I meant, ah, I would like to be keeping you company. Chat,” her hand gestures followed her words. “I think our introduction yesterday was… too short.”

Phichit took a deep breath. He had nothing against her, and the uneasy feeling in his gut felt rude. Let her practice her Royal Common, at the least.

One of the stall owners came up to the pair with a small chair. “Eine Stuhl, Dame?”

“Danke schön, ja.” Louise accepted the chair and sat down close enough for Phichit to feel her presence but not close enough to touch. “Is this okay?”

Phichit hummed, drying his brush from the water cup and dipping back into his paints. The doors and windows were brushed into existence and the striped awnings draped over baskets and tables and chairs. And yet, their shadows did not feel right. Phichit bit on the end of his paintbrush. His eyes bore holes into the canvas.

“Um,” Louise spoke up and pointed to where Phichit was stuck, “perhaps you could put some purple in it?”

Phichit shook his head. “There’s no purple over there. It’s white stucco.”

“If you mix the purple with little bit of that other color, you get shade effect,” Louise pointed out.

Phichit knew that. He _knew_ that. The fact that Louise understood painting better than him was definitely _not_ the reason for his curt response. “But then it’s not realistic.”

Leaned forward, hands propped on the edge of the chair. “Not all pictures have to be realistic…” she pouted. Then, taking notice of the few pieces left to be sold in front of them, her head tilted this way and that. “Although I do have to say your talent is perfect recreation. I feel like I could walk right into these places. Ah, where is that painting from? Uh, what place?”

Phichit glanced around his easel to see what one she was referring to. The off-white sands met a sea of crystalline teal in front of a luscious tropical hill jutting out of the water like a ship’s bow. “That’s on the coast of Dinai. The sands were so pale it looked like snow, and the water was so clear you could see the sea life under the surface—reds and oranges, pinks and purples, brighter than any dye I’ve ever seen.” Phichit smiled inwardly, reminiscing. “It was one of my favorite places.”

Louise made a noise of appreciation. “You are so lucky and—brave to have been to so many places.”

Both fell silent, each into contemplation of different things. Phichit decided to add the purple in like Louise said, and with some finagling, it appeared to work wonders. He set to work blending in other colors, rewetting certain areas to paint over with a new lens on his work. It was difficult to admit, but Phichit was growing to like the company of someone who understood painting like he did.

“So, how long have you been here for?” Louise asked.

Phichit paused, counting the days— _weeks_ —in his head. “I’d… say about a month, actually. Chris was gracious enough to lend me a room, so I’ve been able to stay longer than usual.”

Louise raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You did not stay in his room?”

“W-Why would I do that?” Phichit began to blush, even though he knew no one surrounding them in the market understood their conversation. The implication, paired with Chris’s running joke of a sex dungeon, which he really hoped _was_ only a joke, fit together like two puzzle pieces from two different puzzles. A little too similar to be comfortable.

“The two of you are, uh, courting, are you not?”

“N-No!” Phichit dropped his paint brush. “No. Nonono, we’re not, ah,” Phichit stumbled. They _weren’t_ courting. Barely friends by circumstance, if Phichit were flowering his language, but being pushed to answer out loud was like pulling a cart uphill alone. “I’m here for a trade treaty, that’s it.” That was not it. But it was better than his truth.

“The bastard,” Louise swore under her breath, hidden under a sigh. “You do not have to lie, I know Chris is taken to you. I was just curious how long he had, ah, been at it? His little courtings do not usually last more than a month or so. Just curious,” she added quietly.

News to Phichit, he picked up his paintbrush and attempted to get back into painting, but like a magic trick gone wrong, he couldn’t save face. “Even if we _were_ courting, I don’t plan to stay. It would be pointless.”

At that Louise began to laugh. More than just a giggle behind her hand, too. Borderline mocking.

“Oh darling!” Louise wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “He has never taken an interest in anyone that plans to stay. That would mean he would have to confront his father for once and break our betrothal to the whole country. I do not know how well you know him, but I can tell you that he is a coward.”

The water cup spilled onto the street. Grey, murky water seeped in between the cobblestones.

“Betrothal?” Phichit whispered, stock still for a moment before clearing his throat and picking up his mess. “Uh… congratulations.”

Louise picked up the paintbrush that went flying the other direction and handed it to him with sympathetic eyes. “If it is any consolation, you have taken the news far better than the others have.”

“Others?” Phichit echoed.

“Oh, yeah,” Louise waved it off like it was just a fly buzzing around, “he has been _all around_ the royal loops. I thought he had been with everyone until he told me about you.”

Phichit decided that the piece was finished and set it down with the others. “I told you, we aren’t together. Courting, or whatever you think it is.”

Louise just rolled her eyes, huffing a short breath. “So defensive. Are you not the least bit curious about it, then?”

“About what?” Phichit asked in a flat voice as he placed a smaller canvas onto his easel and readjusted the wood panels. He was not being defensive. Not one bit.

“How it happened,” Louise explained, the pep in her voice never ceasing. Like what she said wasn’t throwing him into a monsoon.

Phichit threw up the hand not holding his paintbrush. “You did say you wanted to chat. Be my guest.”

Louise plunged into a story he half-listened to. In all honesty, Phichit wanted to run away. Process the information, rein in his feelings and undo the knot in his stomach. It shouldn’t bother him, whatever Chris did in his spare time, because Chris was the Prince of his country and had been doing his own thing since before Phichit ever stepped foot into this city.

Phichit wasn’t dumb, however. That hug that Chris had asked for still meant something. What that something was, Phichit couldn’t name, but he clung to it as his one piece of evidence that the things he heard today were untrue.

Before he realized it, he had finished the smaller painting. A picturesque angle on the fountain next to them. Louise had stopped talking for a while.

“So, here we are,” Louise ended, probably for the second time.

“That’s nice.” Phichit began to wring out his brushes and air them dry, setting the last canvas with the others while he undid the locks on his easel. “So, uh, when’s the wedding?”

Louise put a finger to her cheek in thought. “I am sure the King wants it to be official before he, eh, _passes_ , you know? Rumor has it there is engagement planned for this year’s Royal Ball. Have you heard of it? Do you think you will be around for it?”

Messing with the snaps of his bag, Phichit noticed his fingers were sweaty, palms clammy. His paintbrushes dry, he slipped them into a side compartment of his easel and slid it back into the bag. He stood and untied his horse to walk away with the lead in hand, hoping to leave the conversation. “Ah, probably not. We must be going, though. It was nice to chat. C’mon, Poppi.”

But Louise followed right along. “That is such a shame. I was hoping you would be stealing him away. I am tired of keeping count of his… distractions. It is clear he does not want marriage to go through. I am sure he is trying his hardest to get his father to call it off, but, well, stubbornness runs in that family.”

It was not the response he thought she would have. To take her future husband away like some daring mistress was a sure way to get thrown in jail, if not worse. Although the idea of Chris avoiding marriage made sense, considering his occasional flighty behavior, Phichit wasn’t about to bridge across that to the theory that he and Chris were… courting. The idea was strange. Upsetting.

A flutter in the heights of his stomach tickled at the thought of Chris being closer with him. More so than he already had been.

Phichit paused for a moment before pursuing course again, aiming for the alley off to the left toward the river. Louise still followed, seemingly unworried about where she went in this city. She had probably been here more times than she could count.

“You do really like to chat, don’t you?” Phichit searched for the street that led to the riverside, realizing he hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings.

Louise took the lead, bringing them down what happened to be the right street. She turned around to face Phichit and walk backwards at the same time. “Oh, I really do not mean to bug you. I just wanted us to know more about each other, since yesterday was a little rushed.”

She stopped before the street met the river and held Phichit back in the shadows. Poppi snorted. “You seem like a good person, Phichit. I feel sorry you came across Chris at a bad time, but I hope for your sake you realize he still likes to court you.”

“We’re not courting.”

“But you will be.” Louise stated it like a fact. “If I know anything about my best friend.”

Phichit didn’t like being told what to do—a major reason he left Laithand in the first place—and felt sudden conflict over telling her she was wrong and hoping she was right. “I… I apologize, Louise, but I must be getting back.”

He ducked around her, clicking his tongue to Poppi, and was about to get onto her when Louise’s hand grasped his and tugged. Their eyes met, and he saw intense fear in her eyes.

“If he makes you as happy as you make him, please, convince him to go with you when you leave. I want him to be happy. He will not be happy if he is forced to rule. It is not him.” She said it all too quick, tripping over herself to get the unfamiliar language out of her mouth. “Please. If I know him at all from what he has told me, you are good for him. Take him away from here.”

Phichit took his hand away. “That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. I’m sure the King would have my head if I did that—if I even _wanted_ to do that. But I don’t because I am not with him, we are not courting, and I definitely do _not_ feel that way.”

Lies, the voice inside his head spat. Lies!

Louise let go, her hands falling to her sides and her eyes averting downward. But as soon as she did, her head was back up and she was smiling again, her demeanor frighteningly cheerful. “Then have fun in Lunerz, Phichit! Enjoy the city while you are still here, okay?”

Phichit mounted Poppi, settling his feet into the stirrups. “I will, thank you,” he bid her goodbye with a bow and pulled Poppi away toward the chateau.

If each emotion were a dagger, Phichit would have looked like a porcupine.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed the chapter, please consider leaving comments down below. I appreciate and enjoy every one, from a single heart all the way to a multi-comment novella. 
> 
> You can find/chat with me on Tumblr [here](https://noon30ish.tumblr.com/)!


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